


Fifth Victim

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Drama, First Time, M/M, Non-Consensual, hurt-comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-10-14
Updated: 2004-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-01 04:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/352082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lex could be his fifth victim (pre-Smallville/CSI crossover). Archived on 09/19/04. Reposted to correct a few minor inconsistencies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fifth Victim

## Fifth Victim

by Lux

[]()

* * *

WARNING: This story doesn't contain graphic depiction of sex, although it gets as close as possible considering the subject, which is really delicate, dark and difficult. 

This is about a child molester, but I want it to be absolutely clear this is NOT an apology of pedophilia. Quite the contrary. Simply, I noticed that many fics with this theme are dealt with from the detective's point of view. I wanted to do something different, and this is one of the reasons why the story is mostly told from the point of view of the pervert and his victim. I tried to put myself in their shoes. Successfully or not - you be the judge. It wasn't easy, it was a challenge, and I gave it my best. 

Don't read this story if you think you can't bear it. If you read it anyway and feel disgusted or upset, please don't take it out on me. I do believe I did my best to warn you. Don't misunderstand me. I _want_ you to feel upset and disgusted. You HAVE to feel like that. Monsters exist, and the problem is that they don't look that different from the way we do. 

Love to my faithful beta Moss who, as usual, proved to be up to his task, even if he doesn't go much for these kind of stories. Thank you very much and more: you're a real professional! Thanks to Nita/Chibimom for the unexpected and appreciated beta. To my dear Roxy: thank you for reading the story and being that kind and supportive. 

Feedback: this was a hard experience, but I'll consider it rewarding if you appreciate my efforts. So, yes, if you enjoyed this story (as far as you can "enjoy" a story like this), please let me know. 

This pre-Smallville story has a Smallville sequel, _Awakening_. You can read it or not, as you please, since it isn't necessary to the comprehension of this one. 

If you want to read more by Lux, in the SSA you can find my pre-Smallville, angsty, Lex/Bruce Away series and the futurefic _The Last Days_. 

To every murdered or abused child. 

* * *

Homo homini lupus.  
(Man is wolf towards man).

* * *

The kid was special. All smooth, and pale, and delicate. No hair on his cute, small head. No hair anywhere, except for his thin, fair eyebrows and eyelashes. 

It had been a freaky accident. The meteor shower in Smallville, the year before, as the papers had reported. 

Since then, the child had been submitted to a long series of tests and treatments. So his father had declared to the press, and it must have been true, because for almost two months the kid hadn't attended school. 

If the tests had yielded results of scientific interests, he couldn't know. For sure, the treatments had failed their objective, as the boy's father had admitted to the press with a disappointed look. 

He wondered if they had been painful. 

The child had resumed his normal life three months before. A tall, strong man in black uniform, a cross between a chauffeur and a bodyguard, drove him to school every day. 

The boy had sad eyes. No wonder. His father was absent at best, his mother sick. They couldn't give him what he needed. 

He felt for the kid. Watched him enter and exit St. Clement's School for Boys every day and felt for him. Wanted to curl his hand around those small fingers and take him away. Give him what he needed. Love him and be loved. See a spark in those pale, gray-blue eyes. See a smile on that cute, little face. A smile for him. For him alone. 

Now and then, he had seen the boy smile, truth be told. It sometimes happened when the nanny took him along on errands, after school. A couple of times she had been even able to make him laugh. 

The woman had been hired recently, after the kid's mother had fallen ill. She was single, rather young, and very shrewd. She was trying to win the child's love and curry favor with his mother. He wasn't sure if she was going for the child or for the money, but she was dangerous, no doubt about that. 

She was his best card, too, because the house and that school for rich children were guarded like Fort Knox, and he couldn't carry out his plan while the driver was around. But the man always waited outside, when the nanny and the child entered the shops. That seemed to be the only moment when he could act with a reasonable chance of success. 

He had to act as soon as possible, he thought, as he watched the boy admire the toys on the shelves, hand in hand with his nanny. Today, tomorrow, or the following week, she would let him wander alone, while she queued up at the counter or talked to a clerk. Or would let him leaf through a book at the green children's table in the bookstore, while she had a look around the shelves. 

He would be there to take advantage of her distraction and her false sense of safety. Because real safety didn't exist, when people like him were around. 

He smiled, proud of himself, and smoothed the front of his uniform. It was the security guard uniform his father had worn at work. The only useful thing the bastard had left him when he had finally kicked the bucket. Black trousers and a dark green jacket with an official-looking badge on it. It wouldn't scare an adult, but it surely gave him an authoritative air that would have impressed a young kid. 

Actually, the child was too old for his taste, but, luckily, small for his age. He would be fun to play with. Besides, he was unique, and he must have him. His collection would never be complete, without him. 

* * *

The kid stared at him wide-eyed, like a fawn surprised by auto lights in a dark night. 

He didn't like that expression. It unnerved him. 

They were all alike. They never realized how lucky they were to be selected, to be chosen among the likes of them. Hundreds and hundreds of them. 

The search lasted months. The watch, just as many. Then there were the formulation of the plan, and finally the most exciting part, its execution. 

But they never appreciated his efforts. Their stupid little brains didn't grasp the fact that he was the only one who could understand them, their needs, their real nature. 

And yet, he had believed it would have been different with this one. There was something in the kid's eyes that spoke of unusual intelligence, insight and sensitivity. Well, he must have been wrong. He should have gotten rid of him immediately, as soon as he had started to offer resistance. 

He scrutinized the boy with disgust. Took in his fragile, slim frame, as the boy squatted in the squalidly papered corner of the dreary motel room. Watched the blood drool down his little chin from the split upper lip. And suddenly remembered why he hadn't simply snapped that soft, slender neck. The boy hadn't cried when he had hit him. On the contrary, he had stopped fighting right away. Stiff and obedient like a little soldier. 

He wagered he had to thank the kid's father for this. He had taught him well. Complete submission to authority. This could be useful, but in the end the child would forget that indifferent bastard. He only had to make him understand that he would be a far better father than his real one. More, he would be his special friend, his buddy, his companion. They would have been perfect, together. Unbeatable. They wouldn't need anyone else. If only he could wipe that scared expression off his face. 

He stepped towards the small figure curled up in the corner. The boy followed him with his attentive, intense eyes. But didn't flinch. 

He appreciated this. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't want to hurt you. You just made me lose my temper. But now we'll have to fix it. Let me see." 

He crouched before him. Reached for his chin. Examined the cut. Fuck. It was bad. People would notice it. And he couldn't take him to a hospital. Luckily, he had attended a first aid class when he worked as a guide in a children's summer camp. He got up, opened his travel bag and dug out the first aid kit. The difference between a dilettante and a professional was that the latter was never caught unprepared. 

He picked up the disinfectant, the needle and the thread. There was no anesthetic, and it would be painful for the child. He sighed. Too bad that he had to prevent him from screaming. He couldn't run the risk of drawing the neighbors' attention. He took the whiskey bottle out of the bag. 

He turned, showing the bottle to the boy. "Don't worry," he announced merrily. "We're going to have fun." 

* * *

He smoothed the clothes on the shabby dark-red coverlet of the king-sized bed. 

"Look at them. Aren't they pretty?" 

He had bought them in a mall more than a month before, in anticipation of this moment. It had taken an entire afternoon and had been great fun. He loved to do shopping for his little friends, and didn't want them to wear used clothes. Each of them deserved their own wardrobe, the colors, sizes and style matching their personality. 

"I bought them specially for you," he stated, proudly. 

The kid eyed them with a bemused look. 

He smiled. He had decided to be patient with him. The child had behaved, so far. He had even drunk the whiskey without complaining and endured the pain of the suture well enough. Just whimpered a bit. Fortunately, the wound was healing more quickly than expected. 

He picked up the purple frock and sized it up against the kid's body. 

"Delicious." 

The child still looked confused. 

"Strip," he ordered in a low, casual tone. 

The child froze. 

"Did you hear me? I won't repeat it twice," he told him quietly. 

The boy slowly undressed, starting with his school jacket, and continuing with his small tie and his white shirt. His little fingers trembled as he unbuttoned it to the waist. 

His breath hitched in his throat at the sight of that naked, pale birdlike-ribcage. 

"Go on," he insisted, when the kid stopped. 

The kid swallowed and proceeded to unzip his pants. 

Oh, he was a little flirt, this boy, a natural born seducer. He perfectly knew what he was doing. Look at those calculated pauses, look at the way he studied the effect through fine, fair eye-lashes, look at the slight blush on his soft cheeks, look at the shudders that stirred his small small shoulders... oh, it was all so exciting. 

The boy stepped out of his trousers and stood still, in white socks and white briefs, fists clutched against his thin thighs, uncertain what to do. He stared at him in search of instructions, something like a plea in his steel blue eyes. But he knew that child. Knew him better than he did himself. Knew what the kid was looking for. He had just to wipe from his mind all the prejudices and inhibitions his parents and society had undoubtedly inculcated in him. He had to let him understand that it was okay. More than that. It was right, and natural and... perfect. 

But not now. Now they had to be clever and wary. People were hypocrites. People were bigoted. They condemned him and the likes of him while they themselves wallowed everyday in the mire. They were dirty and corrupted. They paid sluts to have intercourse with them, spreading horrible diseases. They cheated on their spouses. They neglected their children, pretending that they had no feelings and sexual needs. They knew the truth but didn't want to admit it. Thus, they had launched a witch-hunt, forcing people like him to live their passions secretly, when no relationship was purer and cleaner than theirs. They gave their little friends exactly what they wanted, no more, no less. They taught them to be free and follow their instincts. They taught them the depth of true love and confidence. And one day, when they had won the fight for their most sacred rights, they would do it openly. 

"Try the dress on," he ordered. 

The boy complied, while he rummaged in his bag and took out the wig. He caressed it. It was simply perfect, made of real, jet black hair in a pageboy cut. 

"Come here," he said. 

The kid moved a half-step closer. 

He seized his arm and gently pulled him against his knees. He helped him on with the wig and smiled, pleased. He span the child around so that he faced the mirror above the chest of drawers. "Look at yourself, my dear. You're perfect." 

The child stared at his reflection, puzzlement written into the lines of his face. 

"You'll make a nice little girl, don't you think?" 

He caressed the bare thin arms and got almost hard feeling goose-bumps jumping up everywhere on the boy's soft skin. 

He dragged the child between his legs, the small of his back against his crotch. He relished the slow arousal that was sliding through his body. He rested his chin on the little shoulder and whispered: "Remember, from now on your name is Scout, like the little girl in that movie, _To Kill a Mockingbird_. She was so pretty... Too bad she must be old and ugly, by now. Perhaps she's even dead." 

He nipped the skin of the little, fragile neck, and again was rewarded by a shiver. So exciting... 

"Tell me, what's your name, my dear?" 

"S-Scout," the child stuttered. 

So cute. He closed his eyes. "And who am I, sweetheart?" 

"U-Uncle Ned." 

"Yeah," he sighed. "Who loves you, Scout?" 

Silence. 

He stared at the child's reflection. His fingers ran along the slim arms, tightening their grip around the small wrists. The child grimaced. He smiled. "Who loves you, pet?" 

"Un-Uncle Ned." 

Ned inhaled a deep breath. Inhaled the child's clean scent. He let his hand sneak under the dress and slide along the smooth little thigh, touching the briefs, slipping underneath. The child started to shift, but he kept him in place. His other hand rose to stroke the kid's neck. "Who do you love, honey?" 

"Uncle Ned," the child promptly replied. 

He was shaking. How exciting... 

He turned the kid around. 

"Kneel down, my love," he said, pressing his hands on the little shoulders. 

Scout obeyed and warily looked up at him, not sure what to expect. 

So cute. So innocent. _So tempting_. 

"Now you're going to do something for me," he announced, as he started to unzip his pants. 

* * *

Ned felt a smirk form on his face, as he watched the news on the old TV set. 

Better than he had expected. Much better. It couldn't be better if they had been hand in glove to set the child up. The rich bastard was giving him his son on a silver tray. 

He looked at the kid. Scout was sitting on the edge of the bed, bare legs dangling, wide eyes fixed on the screen, a defeated expression on his sweet, little face. 

Ned sat beside him. Scout didn't move. He was cute, engulfed in Ned's big white T-shirt. He had vomited all over his pretty dress, while he was satisfying his loving uncle. Just when the dear uncle was coming. Quite disgusting. The dress was ruined. And Ned's shirt and pants too. But the following scene had been worth the while. The look in Scout's eyes. So mortified. So frightened as he waited for his punishment. But Ned had played magnanimous. Had showed him that he wasn't like his father. He was his friend. He could let it slide. He could be patient while Scout was learning. Could give him time. He had just taken a mental note: only get those things done when the kid's stomach is completely empty. 

In the crowded conference room, Lionel Luthor went on talking about the expansion of his business interests in Europe, expounding on his plan for acquisitions. Steady voice, confident expression. As if nothing had happened. 

Watching the boy's small shoulders sag progressively in the process had been a real spectacle. 

Ned wrapped those shoulders in his comforting arm. 

"I told you, Scout," he said, in an understanding tone. "He doesn't give a damn about you. Actually, he ordered me to take you away. He told me he was disappointed with you. And told me you were a burden to your poor, sick mother. She doesn't need to worry about a little, bald, hopeless freak like you. She has to take care of herself. And as soon as she recovers from her illness, they'll have another baby. A real Luthor, he said. A worthy heir. You aren't what he expected." 

Ned saw the small lips quiver, as the kid kept staring at the screen with watering eyes. 

Ned caressed the child's back soothingly, then pulled him closer. Leaning down, he whispered, in the persuasive tone he had perfected in the course of years: "You know, he wanted me to kill you. But I'm a good man, Scout. I couldn't do that to you. You're such a cute, sweet boy, Scout. I love you, and I want to help you. This is why we had to change your name and looks. We have to keep hidden. If he finds us, we're dead, understand?" 

He felt pleased and strangely proud, watching the kid bite his lower lip and fight back tears. 

"Understand?" 

The boy nodded without tearing his eyes from the screen. 

Ned reached for his chin, tilting it up so that the kid was looking at him, eyes wide in the thin, pale face. 

"What a good, smart boy," he said. "I'll always protect you, I promise. As long as you do what I say, you're safe with me. Do you trust me, my love?" 

The bare, little head moved again. Up and down. Ever so slightly. 

"Do you trust me?" he repeated, tightening his grip, a hint of menace in his voice. 

Scout swallowed. But nodded with decision. 

"With your life?" 

The kid's voice was firm, when he replied: "Yes, Uncle Ned." 

He feared he was going to come in his pants. He caressed the smooth cheek, and was surprised to see his own hand shake. 

"Good boy." 

He rubbed the kid's birdlike shoulder, letting his hand slide down his thin arm. Then, he dragged him into his lap, back against his chest, and slipped his fingers under the T-shirt hem. _Mmm_... _that smooth, that soft_... He started to rock, slowly, grinding his crotch into the child's small, naked bottom. The kid tensed, tried to squirm out of his grip. 

Ned squeezed his arms. "Scout..." he murmured, with feigned disappointment. "You're safe with me, remember? We're together in this. Your father must have already unleashed his underlings to find us and kill us. His spies are everywhere." 

Scout didn't speak. Didn't move, except to let his shoulders sag a little. 

Ned felt a smug smile tug up the corners of his lips. 

"I'm your only friend. You do something for me and I do something for you. This is what friends are for. It's natural, perfectly normal between two people who care for each other." 

He pulled the T-shirt off over the child's head, relishing the lack of resistance. 

"You'll learn to love this, my boy. Because you're like me, and you need this as much as I do. You just don't realize it yet." 

He nuzzled the kid's neck, rubbed his skinny, bare torso, stroked his tiny nipples. 

He knew he couldn't resist long. Knew he had to do it, had to do it now. It was the right moment. Reached for the case on the nightstand. Dig out the tube. The boy looked warily and curiously at his maneuvers. Ned placed a hand on his jaw and turned his head back towards the screen, making him jump playfully on his knees. Opened his fly, squirted the contents of the tube into his hand and generously slicked himself. He didn't want to hurt his love more than it was necessary. 

When he proceeded to loosen Scout up, he stiffened and tried to turn again. He stopped him with his sticky hand. 

"Shh-shh. Be quiet. I'm going to teach you a new game," he whispered against his ear. "Perhaps it will hurt you a bit at first, but you're going to like it, I promise. At the end you'll be the one to ask me for it. Just relax. Watch TV. Reeeelax. Understand?" 

Scout shuddered, hesitated a moment, but nodded obediently at last. 

Ned licked his lips. Kissed the back of the kid's head. "That's my boy." 

Lifting him, he instructed hoarsely: "Say: I want to take it up my ass." 

"I ... I want to..." The boy's voice cracked. 

It didn't matter. He would learn. Ned hadn't got time for other lessons, now. He was close, so close, hanging onto it by a thread. 

He lowered the boy back on his lap, maneuvering him by his hips, naked soft skin against naked hard skin. He felt him arch back and go taut, saw his arms and legs start flailing helplessly, almost sensed the scream surge in his tender, fragile throat. He covered his mouth with his right hand, held him still with the other. As he plowed into him, he thought all of a sudden that it would be really perfect if that silky, flawless skin smelled of strawberry. Of course, his collection of different kinds of bubble bath included one enriched with that scent. 

Well, afterwards they would have a long, soothing, warm, perfumed bath. 

The little body spasmed like a fish out of water, turning him on and intensifying his pleasure, as he progressively, relentlessly sank into it. He moved slowly inside the kid, rocking him gently. The throaty cry was dying in that lovely mouth, although something liquid was streaming over Ned's right hand. Oh, yes, he had him all now, filled him, owned him. Thoroughly impaled, his love slouched against his chest, giving in, stilling altogether, like a beautiful butterfly pierced through with a pin. Ned exploded inside him. 

Lionel Luthor was still droning on the screen. 

* * *

It hurt. Hurt. Hurt so much. His whole body trembling, trembling, trembling. Couldn't stop trembling. Curled up on the bed. Big bed, like his parents' one, where his dad didn't let him sleep, even when he had bad dreams. _Go to your room, honey, you know your father doesn't like it. I'll stay with you for a while. There is no monster under your bed there is no monster don't be silly Alexander no monsters. Monsters don't exist. There's nothing under your bed look take a look_. Shame. _What was that what was what I did what have I done why me why me why me what am I doing here want to go home go home go home please home_. Cold. Only his briefs on. Strawberry smell still coming from the bathroom while HE patted inside. Peed. Flushed the toilet. Washed his hands. Brushed his teeth. Cleared his throat. Put his tooth-brush in the glass. Came out. Switched the light off. Yawned. Close. Closer. _Ignore. Ignore him. Make yourself small small small smaller. On the big bed. Small. Invisible. Help me mommy help help. God Jesus save me, I'll be good I promise I'll be good good good_. The bed dipping low under HIS weight. HIS warm body against his back. HIS damp lips against his skin. HIS breath on his neck. Tooth-paste scent. A peck on the cheek. A caress on the arm. 

"Mmmm, you smell good, little one. Strawberry becomes you." 

_No, not again not again please not again it hurts God mommy no_. 

Another yawn. HIS body stretching on the mattress. 

"Well, good night, love. Sweet dreams." 

_Air. Space. Breathe. Breathe again_. 

He blinked in the darkness and, quietly, let his tears break free. 

* * *

Lex turned around, taking in the lights, the colors and the noisy, comfortable activity of the mall. Suddenly, he felt a big hand close around his and drag him ahead. 

"What did I tell you? Stay beside me," said Uncle Ned. "Your father's minions could be anywhere. Besides, there are a lot of ill-intentioned people in places like these. Oh... here are the children's clothes. Look at these dresses. Aren't they nice? Wouldn't they be perfect on you?" 

"Can... can I have these?" Lex hazarded, pointing at a pair of pants. 

"These are boy's pants," Ned scolded. "You're a girl, did you already forget?" 

"Girls wear trousers too," Lex countered, mustering all his courage. 

Ned chuckled and gave a fake sigh. "Okay, you can have one of these, if you wish." He grabbed a pair of denim trousers with a bib and pink flowers printed on them. 

"They're too small," Lex protested. 

"I'm sure they're your size," Uncle Ned retorted, although a frown contradicted his assurance. He selected another dress and a couple of T-shirts. Then explored the place with his gaze. "Look, that's the dressing room. Go in and try these on. Hurry up and don't talk with anybody. They could be one of your father's spies. I'll be waiting right outside." 

Lex trotted towards the changing-room, arms loaded with clothes. He entered a stall and threw them in a bundle on the chair. Looked at himself in the mirror. He still had difficulty recognizing himself like that. A little girl with straight raven hair, a dress better suited for a doll, white socks and pink sneakers. He remembered the school-mates that used to make fun of him because of his baldness. What would they say about this? What would they think of him if they knew what he had done? Ned said it was perfectly natural, but how could it be natural if he felt that grossed out and ashamed? How could it be natural if it hurt so much? How could this have happened? One moment he was admiring the miniature cars in the toy store, a moment later that guard was taking him outside, babbling about an unspecified danger, about his father, his mother, and something about his chauffeur waiting for him, while Pamela was nowhere to be seen. And then that cloth on his mouth and nose, that strange odor, his head spinning, his legs yielding, and the hard floor of that old van before total darkness closed in on him. And then, the miles and miles eaten up along freeways and highways, across fields, forests and towns, and the sequence of ugly motel rooms, gas pumps, supermarkets, fast-food joints. The stains on carpets, on ceilings, the broken bulbs, the buttons, the wrinkles he focused on when he did those things those things those things... The old ladies caressing his face -- what a pretty little girl! -- and the urge to scream, to ask for help, to run away. If it hadn't been for Ned's eyes always fixed on him, watching him, controlling him, probably even through the walls, through the doors, through his chanted made-up spells. If he hadn't been so scared. 

How could he have been that stupid? How could he have let it happen? His father always told him he should trust no one. His father wouldn't have been fooled that easily. His father would have never allowed anyone to do this to him, to force him to do those painful, horrible, shameful things. 

His father wanted him dead. 

So Ned said. 

Ned wasn't always sincere. For instance, he wanted him to call him _uncle_ , and Lex was fairly certain he wasn't even a distant relation. He would have known it. 

But he knew that what Ned said about his dad made sense. 

His father was disappointed with him. He had never been satisfied with him, even before the accident. But it was nothing compared to the way his dad had looked at him afterwards. Lex remembered perfectly well the expression of disbelief and vague disgust in his dad's eyes, when he had come around in that cornfield. Remembered the resolve and relentlessness with which he had gotten him submitted to those endless tests. Remembered the needles, the shocks, the medicines, the nausea and the pain. _This is for your own good_ , his daddy had said. _Be brave, my son. Luthors are not afraid_. 

He had been brave. _I'm proud of you_ , his daddy had said. And he had spent more time with his child than he ever had before. This alone had made Lex feel well, better than he had felt in a long time. Had felt safe. And loved. The pain didn't matter, as long as his daddy stood by him. 

But Lex had seen his dad's expression change with the passing of time. Had seen it become more and more frustrated and nervous. And then he had gone away, and when it had been time for Lex to leave the clinic, the chauffeur had come to take him home. His daddy was nowhere to be seen. 

Lex was now a bald little freak. Always would be. He was the disgrace of his family, and his father was ashamed of him. He hadn't said it openly, but Lex knew. Sometimes, his dad couldn't even look him in the face. 

And he hadn't seemed that anxious or concerned during the interview on TV. He had behaved as if nothing had happened. 

So, yeah, he believed Ned. His father wanted to get rid of him. But he couldn't believe his mom had been in league with him. She couldn't know. And Pamela. She would have never let his father carry on-out his plan, if she had known. 

He took off the stupid wig and dress, toed off the stupid girlish shoes. He put on one of the T-shirts and the flower print jeans. Stared at his reflection again. Better. Much better. He was almost like himself. 

He didn't know how he had mustered the courage. He had planned his runaway for just a couple of days, after Uncle Ned informed him they would stop at a supermarket to run some errands, and perhaps buy him some new clothes. He knew he just needed a bathroom or a dressing room. Just needed to be lucky enough to be left alone inside, now that he had won Ned's trust. Lucky enough to find someone willing to help him. 

He heard a rustle of fabric in the stall next to his. Heard the stall door open. His heart skipped a beat. Now. Now or never. 

He stepped out, finding himself in front of a tall, brown-haired woman. She was wearing a knee-long skirt and an elegant green shirt. She was carrying two dresses, folded over her right arm. She must be his mother's age. A slight frown lined her forehead as she took in his figure. 

He stood in her way, mute. _Your father must have already unleashed his underlings to find us and kill us. His spies are everywhere_. 

He had heard his dad, one night, as he talked with that friend of his, the big blond man with icy eyes. _Don't worry, I greased the palms of the town council_ , he was saying. _There is no one in this city I can't control. And outside, for that matter. Money goes everywhere_. 

The woman continued to look at him, quizzically. 

_Don't trust anybody. Luthors don't trust anybody_. 

Lex's eyes moved from the tiny gold cross shining at the woman's neck to the wedding ring on her finger. 

_Speak. Speak now_. 

He had to take the risk. 

"Excuse me!" he blurted out. 

A kind, encouraging smile formed on her lips. 

"Excuse me," he repeated, in a shaky voice. "Can you help me?" 

The woman frowned again, moved closer, placed a slender, soothing hand on his shoulder. 

"Sure. What's the problem?" she asked, staring at him through concerned eyes. "Did you get lost?" 

"I... yes... no." He bolted towards the dressing room door. Locked it, leaning against it with his back. He whispered, flat out: "My name is Alexander Luthor. I was kidnapped. That man is here outside. My mom must be looking for me. I need to contact her." 

"Oh my God." 

Genuine shock and understanding on the woman's sweet face. She let the dresses fall on the floor and leaned down, caressing his face. "Sure, don't worry. I'll help you." 

Lex felt relieved. Felt a lump form in his throat. Finally. _Finally_. The nightmare was coming to an end. His mom and Pamela would protect him from his father. He would be safe if he managed to get to them without his dad's knowledge. The thought that they could discover what he had done terrified him, but he wouldn't tell, and perhaps Uncle Ned wouldn't tell, either. And even if they found out the truth, he was reasonably certain they could forgive him. They would feel queasy, but they would forgive him. He would tell them Uncle Ned had forced him, had beaten him. Yes, after all he did hit him once. 

"I'll call the police," she stated, as she started fumbling in her bag. 

"No!" he exclaimed, shaking his head vigorously. _Money goes everywhere. His spies are everywhere_. 

"My mom," he added, in a lower, calmer tone. "Call her first." 

The woman hesitated. "But, if he's here... 

"Please," he begged, on the verge of tears. 

She gave in. "Okay. Do you know her number?" 

He nodded. He had repeated her cell phone number at least one hundred times in his mind. 

She dug the phone out of her bag. He started to dictate the number, as she dialed with an unsteady hand. His relief lasted the blink of an eye. 

He froze, as the stall door behind the woman opened and Uncle Ned stepped outside. She looked at Lex, waiting for the rest of the number. Took in his terrified expression, but probably didn't even have the time to realize what was happening. 

Lex stood there wide-eyed and petrified as the knife sliced her throat and she fell down, a large bloodstain widening beneath her on the beige floor. 

"Look what you've done," Uncle Ned seethed, snatching the phone from her hand. "She was calling your father, you idiot! Do you want us dead? Look, look! This is his office number!" he hissed, waving the phone in Lex's direction before jamming it in his pants pocket. He picked up one of the dresses to clean his hands and the knife's blade. 

Lex didn't see anything except for the corpse. Just stared at the corpse. Stared at the long dark waves of hair spread on the floor. Stared at the bloodstain. 

Huge. Huge bloodstain. Red. So red against the beige floor. 

"What did you think? You think your mother can help you? You idiot! He would get her murdered too, if she just tried! And that stupid nanny too!" 

The room started to expand around him. Started to reel. The floor didn't move. The body didn't move. The bloodstain didn't move. 

Couldn't tear his eyes away. Just stared. Cold, transfixed, totally blank, as if something had short-circuited in his brain. 

Snapped out of his confused trance at the pain as Uncle Ned gripped his arms and shook him hard, wildly. 

"This is your fault," he accused. "I told you not to talk to anyone! You forced me to do this!" 

Lex heard the snap in his left shoulder, as the bone was dislocated from its socket. A sharp pain shot throughout his body, begetting tears. He felt a scream surge in his throat, his stomach churning acid. Felt the big hand press on his mouth, stifling the cry. Felt relieved, when darkness finally closed around him. 

* * *

"How did it happen?" the doctor asked, pushing him out of the room. 

Ned caught a last glimpse of Scout, lying pale and numb on the E.R. bed, before the door closed behind the doctor's back. 

"He told me he was playing with other boys," Ned repeated by heart the story he had made up while they were heading to the hospital. Fortunately, with the passing years he had stored up a little collection of wigs. He had one for every occasion. Now, Scout was a light brown-haired boy named Danny. You never knew how far those interfering busybodies would go with their exams. "I guess they came to blows. They're kids, you know." 

"I see," the doctor said, although he didn't sound convinced. 

_Priggish bastard_. Who did he think he were? He was still wet behind the ears. 

"What about the scar on the boy's upper lip? It looks recent." 

Ned had a ready answer for this too. He knew them, those damn meddlers. He would have preferred to fix the problem by himself. Fuck. Had tried, as soon as they had been far enough from that goddamn mall. But he had only managed to make the kid cry (and faint twice). The more he pulled that damn arm, the worse the situation seemed to get. At the end, he had concluded that they needed to resort to a real doctor. 

The boy was giving him more trouble than expected. Had he been anyone else, he would already be dead. But he was worthwhile. Nobody else had ever turned him on like he did. And, truth be told, he liked his shrewdness, although it made him untrustworthy. But he would regain the upper hand. Was already getting the better. Doing in that other meddler in the mall dressing room seemed to be enough. The boy hadn't uttered a word since then, except when Ned had asked him to repeat their cover story for the hospital. Ned was proud of himself for dealing so well with that unfortunate mishap. It could even be useful. _She's calling your father_. Terrific. What a great improviser. Now the kid was so confused and shocked that he was ready to buy whatever Uncle Ned said. 

"He fell off his bike," Ned recited. "He's really careless." 

"Who patched him up? He botched the job." 

This whipper-snapper was a real pain in the ass. 

"Uh... A country doctor in Kansas. I don't remember his name. I had never seen him before. We're going to Utah, my son and I. I'm taking him to my ex-wife in Salt Lake City. And, by the way, if you're done with him..." 

"I fear we'll have to keep your son a little longer, Mr. Conroy." 

"But..." 

"In the waiting room there is a vending-machine, if you want some coffee..." 

The doctor slid into the room again, closing the door behind him. Ned fought the urge to follow him inside and cut his throat. Well, if that fucking jerk thought he could turn the boy against him he was sadly mistaken. Ned had been wrong about Scout before, but this time the kid wouldn't betray him. Not now. Not anymore. He had instructed him well. And now his little love knew perfectly what Uncle Ned was capable of. 

* * *

"Okay, Danny. Here I am again. How are you feeling, now?" 

_Danny_? _Oh, yeah. Danny_. His new name. Temporary name. Nice name. Had a school-mate named like that. Danny Marc... Mart... Maxwell? Danny Maxwell? 

"Danny?" 

He blinked. So drowsy. Must have drifted off for a while. The young doctor welcomed him with an open smile, adjusting the pillows behind his back. 

"Hey, champ, don't worry if you feel a bit dizzy. We gave you a sedative." 

Oh, yeah. Now he remembered. The injection. The pretty nurse with doe-like eyes and a slight foreign accent - Ellie? -- who had tried to distract him while the doctor fixed his dislocated shoulder. The pain, in spite of the downer. But it would have been much worse without it. He knew. Uncle Ned's attempts had been terribly painful, even when he had started to stuff him with alcohol. And then they had been forced to wait for the traces of alcohol to leave his system before going to the hospital. _You never know how far those interfering busybodies could go with their fucking exams_. 

"Your shoulder might be sore for a while, after the sedative effects wear off, but it will pass. In any case, I'll give your father a prescription for painkillers." 

"Thanks," he slurred slightly. 

The doctor cleared his throat. "Danny, can you tell me how you hurt your shoulder?" 

"Fighting with other boys in the motel courtyard," he promptly replied, as the fog started fading away from his brain. "They made fun of me and didn't want me to play with them. One of them pulled my arm hard. He was older and bigger than me. I couldn't stop him." 

"What motel?" the doctor inquired. 

"I don't remember the name. We stayed at a lot of motels. My dad is taking me to my mom, in Salt Lake City." 

The doctor frowned. Lex cringed inside. Had he said something wrong? He managed to maintain a innocent expression. 

"Your father told me," the doctor said. "Told me exactly the same words, in fact." 

Well, it was okay, then. Lex felt relieved. 

"How did you get that scar on your upper lip, Danny?" 

_Remember, you fell off your bike. You're very careless_. 

"I fell off my bike. I'm very careless. My dad always tell me." 

The doctor's forehead creased again. He rested his clipboard on the nightstand, then moved closer and placed a hand on his. 

"Danny, you don't have to be afraid," he said, in an understanding tone. "If you want to tell me something, I'm here to listen." 

"Wha... what should I say?" Lex stuttered. 

"I know you love your dad, but if he hurts you, he's sick and needs your help. You have to tell me the truth." 

Lex shook his head. 

"You're safe with me. He can't touch you. Don't worry." 

_You're safe with me. I'll protect you. Don't trust anyone. His spies are everywhere_. 

He could be a spy. Sure, he could be a spy. 

_Don't worry. I'll help you. Don't worry. I'll help you_. 

Lex replayed for the hundredth time the dressing room scene. Saw again the woman's face as she fell lifeless on the floor. Saw again the huge bloodstain on the beige tiles. 

_Look what you've done. This is your fault. I told you not to talk to anyone_! _You forced me to do this_! 

His fault. It had been his fault. He had asked for her help and she had died. He wasn't sure she was a spy. He hadn't seen the number on the phone display, and anyway he didn't remember his father's office number. He had to take Ned's word on that. He hoped that was the truth, because the only thing he knew for sure was that he had involved her and she was dead. 

"Danny, I assure you: this is for your father's good, too." 

He was dead. Would be dead. Was going to die. 

Lex stared at him and saw the gash in his throat. Saw the blood spill copiously from it. Saw his wide, glassy eyes as he fell on the floor. 

"Danny?" 

Lex snapped out of his reverie. 

"My father didn't do anything to me," he stated, flat out. "I hurt myself. I'm very careless." 

The doctor nodded, resigned. He removed his hand and took his clipboard. 

"If you feel like talking, please, call me. Now I have other patients to attend to, but I'll send in the nurse. She'll take good care of you while I'm away." 

"The nurse?" Lex brightened. "Ellie?" 

The doctor smiled. "You like her, don't you?" 

Lex flushed. 

"Well, can I tell you a secret? I've a weakness for her, too. But I'm afraid she prefers you, you little charmer." 

Lex rolled his eyes, realizing the doctor was joking. "Sure," he murmured. 

The doctor chuckled. "Okay, take a rest, champ. I'll be back in a little while." 

Lex nodded, relieved. Done. He had gotten away with it. He had been good, hadn't he? 

After a brief while, the door flung open and he smiled, ready to welcome Ellie. The smile died on his lips, when Ned rushed inside, a bundle of clothes in his hands. 

"Here. Put these on. Hurry up. What did you tell him?" 

"Nothing," Lex swore, while Ned helped him wear over his bandages a large T-shirt with I LOVE DENVER printed across it. "The story you told me to say." 

"I bet that asshole has gone straight to call Soc... your father. We haven't got much time." 

He dragged Lex out of the bed by his good arm. 

"C'mon, slowpoke!" 

They were close to the door, when it opened again. Ned sneaked behind it, pulling him along. 

Nurse Ellie stepped inside, started to look around, confused. 

Lex's breath caught in his throat. He kept still, hands curled tight. _Don't turn. Please. Go away. Go away. Go away. Don't let her turn_. 

She turned aside, and he couldn't scream, couldn't move, couldn't shut his eyes. Wouldn't have had the time even if he had mustered the strength and presence of mind to do it. 

Ned had already a metallic tray in his hand and was violently striking her forehead with it. Her beautiful dark, slightly slanting eyes just blinked once before the blow. Her face took on a bewildered expression. And then it was gone, and she was sprawled on the floor, brown locks breaking loose from her neat, thick bun. There was something under the back of her head. Something dark. Something red. Something... He blinked, and the bloodstain suddenly disappeared. His eyes were still fixed on the woman's motionless face and untidy body as Ned tugged him out of the room and down the corridor. 

"Get a move on and keep silent," Ned hissed. "If you expose us, I swear: I'll cut your throat before your father's men have a chance to do it." 

Lex nodded and quickened his pace. He tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He couldn't wait to be out of there, to be far away, before someone else ended up hurt or dead. 

Finally they were in the parking lot, and Ned was shoving him into the back of the van. 

"Put on the black wig and one of the dresses. Hurry up," he ordered, settling behind the wheel. 

Lex found the travel bag, dug out the articles and fumbled with them while the van started moving and then zigzagged out of the parking lot. He stifled a cry when the van drove down the slope and he lost his balance, hitting the wall with his sore shoulder. Eventually, he managed to get the clothes on. He climbed on the front seat, next to him, because he knew Ned wanted him there. Ned liked to talk to him, and sometimes touch him, when he drove. 

Ned cast an eye over him, but didn't talk. Didn't touch. Just went on driving. Attentively. Quietly. Until it started raining. Until they were out of the city. A long way from the city. And then all of a sudden, after passing a stationary police car with a cop leaning against the driver door, he laughed out loud. 

Lex turned and stared at him, befuddled. 

"We made it," Ned grinned. "God, how stupid they are. We took them in completely. We're a great team." He looked down at Lex, and his expression softened: "Sorry about all that stuff earlier. We were in grave danger. I just needed you to be focused. I didn't mean to scare you. Are you okay?" 

Lex immediately nodded. 

"Good. I wouldn't like you to be upset. Oh, put on your seatbelt, little one. We don't want you to get hurt, do we?" 

Lex complied. 

"Good boy. I love you, pet. You know this, don't you?" 

Lex forced a smile. "Sure, Uncle Ned." 

Ned reached for his thigh and caressed it beneath the hem of the dress. "Nobody is going to stop us." 

Lex's hands curled around the edges of the passenger seat. He stared at the road and the fields beyond the windshield. He observed the wipers move back and forth. It was raining blood. 

* * *

This city glittered. He had already heard of it. His father sometimes came here on business trips, but never took him along. 

Ned had taken him on a complete tour. They'd seen a big, black pyramid, a Sphinx, an erupting volcano, the Eiffel Tower, a collection of old cars that had belonged to famous people such as Hitler, Roosevelt and Al Capone, a Roman palace with fountains, statues and columns, a huge hotel with a gigantic lion at the front and another that looked like Venice, with canals and gondolas, and the Rialto bridge and the Piazza San Marco and the Campanile (very similar to the ones he had seen in the real city when he had visited it with his mom a year before). They'd admired a battle between an English frigate and a pirate-ship and visited a gadget shop, where Ned had bought him a small teddy bear with pointed ears, black hair and a light blue shirt. 

Lex thought he could live there. There were a lot of people, a lot of tourists, a lot of noise. Nobody would find them, nobody would get hurt. Nobody would have to suffer because of him. 

Even if his father came here on business again, the chances that he would run into them were nearly non-existent. He had told Ned so. Ned had agreed with him. He had promised he would start looking for a job the following day. 

"Come back here, pet," Ned called him. "What are you looking at?" 

"The Stratosphere Tower," he promptly replied. It wasn't exactly true, but the tower was actually the only interesting feature he could make out from the hotel window. 

"Tomorrow afternoon I'll take you to the top of the tower, if you want. There's a roller-coaster, up there. We could go for a ride. What do you think?" 

"Okay," he said, trying to look expectant. 

"Done. Now come here." 

Lex let go of the curtain and turned. Ned was still lying on the bed, naked, his left arm hooked behind the back of his head. With his right hand he was touching himself. And he was hard again. 

"Uncle Ned needs you, sweetie," Ned sing-songed. 

Lex mechanically took off his T-shirt and shorts. Folded them and placed them carefully on the armchair in the corner. He took his teddy bear and crawled onto the bed beside Uncle Ned. He curled up, face to the window, the stuffed doll-bear clasped against his chest. He could still see a portion of the city through the slit between the curtains. It was like a stream of lights. 

Lex steeled himself for what was coming. Ned was about to hurt him again. But it never lasted long, and usually didn't happen more than once or twice a day. Perhaps, when Ned had started working, he would be too tired to bother him. Perhaps he would bother him only during the week-ends. And when Ned was at work, he could go to school like the other children. Yes, he could go for it. He could make it. He might even convince Ned to let him go to the entertainment parks on his own. He might make some friends. Of course, he couldn't invite them home, but ... 

The bed dipped as Ned shifted position. Lex felt his tongue leave a wet trail on his bare head and the back of his neck. Felt Ned's hand tug at his sore shoulder, forcing him to roll onto his back. Lex started to stretch out his legs, but Ned seized them, pushing them back and apart, so that Lex's feet rested flat on the mattress. He held still, while Ned covered him with his body. Couldn't help a wince, as Ned pressed his shoulders down with his hands. 

His head was still turned towards the window, his eyes fixed on the sparkling opening between the curtains. He let his teddy bear fall on the floor, and started to count the lights in his mind. 

* * *

"This is Ray, pet. He's a friend of mine." 

"Hi, Kevin. Your daddy keeps talking about you. I was anxious to meet you. I see now he has every reason to be proud. Look at these eyes... And skin. Do you like licorice, Kevin? Here. And here's another present for you. It's a sticker. This has Scooby-Doo on it, but I have many of them with other characters printed on them: Bart Simpson, Animaniacs, the Ninja Turtles... Look, it's special. You have to open it and lick the back. Come on, don't worry. I promise you'll like it." 

"We have to be nice with Ray, my love. He can help us." 

"See? Your daddy's right. Taste it. Oh, like that. Good, mmm? And it'll make you feel good, too, you'll see... He's cute, Ned. You're a lucky son of a bitch." 

"You too, now, Ray." 

"Yeah. I have a thing for redheads, you know." 

* * *

He was such a good kid. So docile and eager to please. And so skilled. 

Ned looked on as he serviced Ray. Listened to the man's panting. Looked at his enraptured expression, at his sweaty neck, at his back muscles, rippling in the effort of the lunges. 

He should have enjoyed the show and jerked off, as he always did when he lent his little friends to his big friends. He should have felt proud of Scout. He had taught him all he had to know, and the boy was an apt pupil. And now even other connoisseurs, like Ray, had the chance to recognize it. 

But no, he couldn't get off anymore. On the contrary, he felt slightly irked. 

Ray was his only contact in this city. Not really a friend, but one of the several acquaintances he had made on the Internet, swapping pics and information. The ones you turn to in situations like these. Ned had promised him photos of his lovely red-headed Kevin in return for his help. A fair, and not uncommon exchange of favors. 

Ray wasn't of the same opinion. After having seen the boy, he had asked for a taste. 

The request hadn't surprised him. He wasn't born yesterday. He was even eager to show off what a magnificent job he had done with this boy. Besides, the kid apparently loved Las Vegas, seemed at ease here, calmer. And they couldn't keep fleeing forever. He was running out of money. Ray could help him find a job and a house, and they would be a real family. No busybody would annoy them anymore. Ray would see to that. He knew a lot of people here, and could get them protection. 

The first time, Scout had cried a little, in spite of the acid he had licked from the sticker. Ned had felt pleased, and excited. After all, that was a proof of Scout's love for him. He had come hard in his hand, as Ray fucked his little one. 

Very satisfied, Ray had offered to put them up until they found a house on their own. Ned loved Ray's house. There were a swimming pool, a garden, a gigantic TV, an up-to-date VCR with a wide selection of cartoons and porn, videogames and toys for Scout. Ray had promised to get Ned a job as receptionist in his office. Of course, he had asked for a big incentive. 

And that was when the accident had occurred, just while he was exacting it. Ned remembered Ray's brows furrowed in confusion, as he stared at the red wig he had found in his hand in the middle of what surely was one of the best blow-jobs he had experienced in his life. And then realization in his eyes, and a knowing smile on his lips. He had locked eyes with Ned, still grinning, still caressing Scout's bare head and thrusting in his mouth, until his eyes had rolled back and closed, and a groan had escaped his throat, louder and smugger than the previous time. 

Ned had known then that he was in trouble. 

Ray had rearranged his clothes, caressed the boy, given him the usual roll of licorice. Then, while Scout was watching the cartoons in the sitting-room, he had taken Ned aside. 

"You, son of a bitch. Do you think I'm stupid?" he had accused. But his tone was mild, and the sly smile hadn't completely faded. "I know him. For a moment I thought he was sick. That you had kidnapped him from some hospital. But he's that boy, isn't he? The one from that meteor accident on Kansas. Alexander Luthor. You moron. And you involved me in this mess. His father must be looking for him everywhere. He must have unleashed hell to try and find you. He's a rich bastard without scruples, and that's his only heir. I ought to call him." 

For a second, the threat had frozen him, but he had recovered quickly. He had allowed himself a dismissing smile. "You _fucked_ his only heir. We're in the same boat, now. I don't think you're so eager to go to jail." 

Ray had looked unfazed. "You don't understand, do you? I don't remember hearing Luthor's desperate plea to his son's kidnappers on TV. That man is a shark. He's going to solve the problem by himself. You'll never end up in jail. And, since he's a businessman, I suspect he'll be grateful to me if I let him know who and where Alexander's kidnapper is. I could even gain something from this." 

Ned had felt his mouth go dry. 

"But don't worry," Ray had continued. "We can make an agreement." 

"Wha... what sort of..." 

"Since I'm already involved, I might as well take advantage of the situation, without even running the risk of incurring Luthor's wrath. _We_ can take advantage of the situation. You're narrow-minded, my friend. You don't even realize what a gold mine you have there. I know several enthusiasts who'd be more than happy to ride your cute pony. Some of them even know his father, have been _fucked over_ by his father, and this would certainly give plenty of opportunities to come... and also for income." Ray's eyes sparkled with amusement at the joke. "He's a rare specimen, Ned. Look at him. He's amazing, I must give it to you. He seems almost unearthly. An adorable, tender, little sprite. And he's talented. You did an excellent job. We could even use him in some movies. For a selected audience only, of course. We don't want to run the risk of being exposed, right? I know a very creative, trustworthy director." 

Ned hadn't liked it. Hadn't liked it at all. The proposition wouldn't have fazed him if it had concerned any other of his little friends, but it was about Scout, and he had realized in that precise moment how important the boy now was to him. More than he had expected. He was amazing -- Ray was right -- and he was his, his alone. Damn, he was falling for his hairless pet. 

That was dangerous, but exhilarating too. He had been attracted to a lot of boys, but he had felt that deep sensation only once before then. For his only love, his first love, his darling little brother. 

Ray had disappointed him. He had become arrogant and greedy. This wasn't good. Ned would willingly share his possessions, but only on his conditions. It wasn't up to Ray to make the rules. Who did he think he was, that fucking bastard? Only because he had a beautiful house, a degree, and fancy clothes and cars he thought he was better than him? Well, he didn't know him. 

Ned watched Ray's Adam's apple move convulsively in his throat, as he "rode Ned's pony". Watched Scout obediently submit to his lewd, filthy impulses. And suddenly he saw it. What was unsettling him most. The boy wasn't crying. Since that first time with Ray, he hadn't shed a single, tiny tear. It could be the drugs, that damned acid Ray gave him at every encounter as if it was candy -- a sticker before, a licorice afterwards -- to make him more easy and open to new experiences, he said. Ned had been against it since the beginning. Had just given in to gain Ray's favor. He didn't like his boy when he was on drugs. He wasn't himself, and wasn't really there, and Ned wanted his love to be entirely present when they fucked. 

Yes, it could be the drugs. But Scout had cried anyway that first time. What if the boy was enjoying it? What if he was taking to Ray? For the first time in ages, Ned felt sick. 

He looked around feverishly. His gaze landed on the tree-shaped trophy on the chest of drawers, just within arm's reach. 

He rose from the armchair, grabbed the trophy and carefully climbed into bed to tower over Ray's back. _Enjoy this thrust, my friend, because it will be the last_. He raised his arm. Saw Scout's eyes widen as they took him in, sheer horror settling over his features. Ned struck. And struck. And struck. _Yeah, die. Snuff it, greedy bastard_. 

Jets of blood spraying Scout's face. Blinking eyes and gasps as Ray's big, heavy body collapsed lifeless over him. Ned hit once more, just to be sure. Then sucked in a deep, satisfied breath. He drew back and grasped Ray's ankles, pulling him along and out of the boy, until the man's head rested between Scout's thighs. 

The kid was still wheezing, eyes blank, hands clenched into fists at his sides, arms tight to his trembling, almost shrinking body. Ray's smashed, bloody head had left a trail on his torso, like a disgusting snail. 

With another sharp tug, Ned pulled Ray back some more. Then crawled back to the boy, straddled his legs, started to shake him by his shoulders. After a brief while restrained himself, remembering the latest time outcome. He just didn't need to risk another visit to an E.R. He opted for slapping the boy on the face. 

"Stop it, Scout! Calm down!" 

The kid stopped gasping abruptly. He stared at him stupefied, as if he were seeing him for the first time, and his eyes began filling with tears. 

"Don't cry!" Ned hissed, unnerved. "What are you crying for? Him? He wasn't our friend. He was going to betray us. He planned to sell us to your father. I had to kill him. There's nothing to cry about. Nothing!" 

Scout cringed even more, curling his face into a grimace in the huge effort to stifle a sob. A big tear rolled down his temple. 

Out of patience, Ned grabbed him above the elbows, lifted him up and carried him to the bathroom, holding him at arm's distance. Deposited him into the tub. Scout stood stiff, contracted, shoulders stooping, arms flexed and close to his chest, as if he were trying to make himself small or vanish altogether. His whole body was shaking uncontrollably. 

Ned took the shower hose and turned on the water. Directed the spray against the boy, curiously watching streams of watered-down blood wash off his body and down the drain. He suspected there were tears mixed with it, but tried to ignore it. 

When finally the water ran clear, Ned turned it off and toweled the kid. Hoisted him up into his arms and carried him back to the bedroom. 

"Here." He took Scout's clothes, neatly folded on the armchair, and helped him put them on. He realized Scout was avoiding looking towards the bed. 

Irked, Ned caught his chin in his fingers and forced him to turn. 

"Look. He was a pig who deserved to fucking die like that. I did it for you and would do it again, if it were necessary. Remember it. " 

Scout's lips started quivering, and Ned became aware he was about to break into tears again. He felt the impulse to crack that rotten head against the wall. Somehow, checked himself. 

He grabbed Scout's arms and squeezed them. "This is for him, isn't it? Did you fall in love with him? Or with his fucking presents? Did you think to use him? I know you, you shrewd little schemer. Did you think he could stuff you with that shit for the rest of your life? Did you think he could protect you like I do? What was your plan? Leave me? Run away with him?" 

"No!" the boy yelled desperately. 

"Then, what? Why didn't you cry while he was fucking you? Did you like it? Did you like him? Speak!" 

Scout sniffed. "I thought you wanted me to please him," he explained, in a small voice. "You said he was your friend. Said I had to be kind to him. I... I did what you asked me to do. I tried to be good. I wanted to make you happy." 

"Then... Then why these tears, now?" Ned asked, befuddled. 

"I'm afraid," Scout whimpered. 

The revelation struck him like lightening. Scout had given himself to Ray for him. Scout loved him. And, of course, he was scared. All that blood... He was just a child, after all. And Ned had misjudged him. Mistreated him. He felt touched, and guilty. Felt the urge to make up for it. 

He pulled him over into a hard, wet kiss. Then held him close, resting his head against Scout's cheek. 

"He grossed you out. You didn't love him," Ned repeated, like a mantra. 

He felt Scout nod against his hair. 

Ned cupped his head's back with his hand. Realized with amazement that a lump was forming in his throat. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart. So sorry. I love you, pet. You know that, don't you? Don't be frightened. It's over, okay? Everything's going to be all right. That disgusting man won't hurt you anymore. The world is full of bad men like him, but I'll never allow any of them to touch you again, I promise." 

"Take me away," Scout said after a while, in an even tone that didn't seem to belong to him. 

Ned drew back. Looked at his face, and wondered if he had just imagined the absent expression in his gray-blue eyes, just a second before they had flickered back to life. 

"Away from here," the boy added. 

"Right," Ned approved, excited. "We can't stay here. It's dangerous. Take your belongings... and whatever you like. We'll look for a safer place." 

He released him, and the boy headed for the door, keeping his eyes lowered and circling the bed at a safe distance, as if the corpse might suddenly stretch his arm out and seize him. Kids. Easily impressionable. They believed in zombies and ghosts and aliens and who knows what else. Small wonder Scout had all those bad dreams. He would forbid him from watching those frightening horror movies on TV again. 

Ned looked at Ray and smiled. _Life is strange, isn't it_? _A moment ago you had everything, now you're nothing. You tried to be clever with the wrong man, my friend_. 

He picked up the murder weapon, took it to the bathroom, washed it in the sink and dried it off with a cloth. He moved back to the bedroom holding it with the cloth and replaced it on the chest of drawers. He went on wiping all the surfaces he and Scout might have touched. He had time. Would probably have time to clean up the whole house, before someone noticed the prick was missing. 

Scout appeared in the corridor, his small travel bag hanging at his side. 

"Let's go, Uncle Ned," he said, emotionless. 

He felt proud, almost moved. That was the turning point. Finally. The point where his love realized there was no reality except for this, for the two of them, and that they were as one. _Look at him, Ray. Look at what I made out of him. My masterpiece. The perfect partner_. 

He realized he was getting hard. 

"Come here, pet." 

Scout looked at him, confused. 

"Let's do it in this room for the last time." _Here, in front of him_. He stepped ahead, stopping close to the bed. "Show me you love me, Scout." _Show him you didn't love him_. 

Scout hesitated a moment, but let the bag fall on the floor and entered the room. Ned unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, let them fall around his ankles. 

"We don't give a fuck about him," Ned said. "I don't give a fuck about him. Repeat it." 

"I don't give a fuck about him," Scout said obediently. 

"I'm going to suck you off in front of him right now. Say it." 

"I'm going to suck you off in front of him right now." 

"Good. Good boy," Ned approved, caressing his small, smooth scalp. "Now do it," he added, exercising a slight pressure on it. 

Scout leaned closer. 

Ned shut his eyes, swallowed and reclined his head, relishing that familiar, warm, wet sensation, as the boy started working on the contents of his briefs. 

* * *

"A sleepless neighbor called us. Heard a noise and saw an old run-down, light blue van that didn't belong to the victim leave the house at one twenty-five. He suspected a burglary." 

The body was lying face down on the crumpled sheets, white trousers lowered to the knees, salmon-colored polo shirt rolled up around the chest, bare feet sticking out of the bed's end. 

"He was clearly dragged backwards," Gil Grissom observed. "But, for some reason, he was left here." 

"The murderer might have run into trouble while he was trying to hide the corpse," Catherine offered. 

"Maybe." Putting on a pair of gloves, Gil Grissom leaned down to examine more closely the victim's head. "Blunt instrument. Several, violent blows. The cranium is practically split in half like a melon." 

Catherine snapped another series of shots, taking note of the manicured nails, the designer clothes, the tanned skin, the lack of a ring or traces of it on the left annular. _Upper_ - _class male, sturdy, dark blond_ - _haired, 40_ - _45 years old, single, she listed mentally_. 

"Raymond Chambers, 41, lawyer," Detective Avila continued, reading from his note-book. "Ex-wife. One 16-year-old stepdaughter. Member of the Rotary Club, and highly-esteemed member of the community, well-known for his commitment to social activities in favor of orphans, needy children and juvenile offenders. A couple of months ago he bought the uniforms for the local junior soccer league." 

"A real saint, mmh?" Catherine commented skeptically, while Grissom picked up a short black hair with a transparent adhesive tape. "And yet, judging from this scene, he managed to piss somebody off really badly." 

"He was a shark in court," Avila added. "He undoubtedly made a lot of enemies. We're going to check his most recent cases." 

"Wait, wait... Chambers? The 'Kovic case' Chambers?" Catherine remembered. "Mister Procedural Flaw?" 

Gil cast at her a curious look. 

"We almost met in court two months ago... That rape case at the tennis club, remember? He had that rich bastard released on an error of form before I had a chance to show the evidence I gathered. A long, hard job down the drain." 

Gil shrugged. "It wasn't your fault, Catherine," he said, matter-of-factly. "Someone else made a mistake and our victim just did his job taking advantage of it." 

Not for the first time, Catherine wondered how he always managed to be so mild-mannered and take everything in stride, as if life slid off him leaving him unscathed. It was even more disquieting, considering their job. Or perhaps that was the reason. A matter of habit. Gil Grissom had been in the graveyard shift of the CSI unit much longer than she had. Otherwise, he wouldn't have been in charge of showing her the ropes, in the first place. She had seen enough depravity as a former exotic dancer, and now as a CSI investigator, though, and she was beginning to think she would never be able to be detached like he was. But she was allowed to have her feelings, after all, as long as she didn't let them affect the outcome of her work. And that she did well, she had been pleased to discover. 

"Yeah, and then he allocated part of his big fees for the Children's Soccer League benefit," she sighed, as Grissom inspected the blood trail on the sheet. "A way like any other to clear one's conscience." 

"Look at this," Grissom said, as if he hadn't even heard her. 

She moved closer. 

Grissom pointed to the blood stains on the pillow. 

"His head was here when it was hit." Catherine photographed the stains. 

"Yes. But look at the disposition. Nothing in the center. And the void here," he continued, passing his hand above the clean sheet between the pillow and the victim's head. "There was something... someone under him." 

Catherine photographed, diligently. "Okay. So, he was probably having intercourse. He was taken by surprise. Killed and dragged back in order to get his partner free. A prostitute? She could have been in league with the murderer." 

"His wallet was empty," Avila chipped in. "And we are checking the rest of the house to see if something else is missing. It could be a theft." 

"Or they're trying to make us believe it's one," Grissom observed. "Or the killer just took advantage of the situation. This murder seems way too violent for a simple burglary... Mmh," he studied the pillow-slip closely again. "Look, silk keeps stains. There's moisture here. Seems recent." He touched it. "It's cool." 

"That isn't blood." 

"No. Could be water. Or tears." 

"You mean Chambers's partner could have nothing to do with the crime?" Avila asked. 

"Well, this person may not be an accessory to the crime, but they could be the reason for it." 

"Jealousy," Avila concluded. 

"A possible hypothesis." 

Grissom examined the seminal fluid on the bed sheets through tinted glass and an ALS. He moved the light away and continued to look around. 

Catherine put away the camera, opened her kit and removed the luminol. She sprayed it carefully over the knick-knacks, in search of the crime weapon. She ignored only a frail china pot and a small Spock teddy bear. 

A stylized metallic tree reproduction glowed. "I got it," she announced, turning to see Grissom gathering ejaculate samples from the floor. 

Grissom got up and joined her, along with Avila. He read the inscription on the trophy: "To Raymond Chambers, meritorious benefactor of The Pine Tree Children's Home." 

"Detective Avila, we found these," an agent said, entering the room. He held out a pack of photos. 

Catherine felt her stomach churn. 

"The set of motives widens: defense and revenge," Avila inferred. 

Grissom cast a glance over the pornographic images of little boys and girls, then turned back to the trophy. 

"This is called poetic justice," he corrected in an even voice. 

* * *

"How embarrassing," Jean Chambers commented with a tiny disgusted grimace. "In his bed, with his pants down. Gross. I knew one day he would make us the talk of the town. I won't be able to show my face at the golf club anymore." 

Catherine and Grissom were unfazed. They had seen even more bizarre reactions. Once, an abused wife, unexpectedly turned widow, had uncorked a bottle of wine and proposed they make a toast. 

"Have you got a van, Mrs. Chambers?" Catherine asked abruptly. 

She had already catalogued her: slender, just over forty, elegant and tidy in her silk kimono, perfectly manicured nails, dyed blond hair that seemed fresh from the hairdresser even at that ungodly hour, a woman who had made her appearance the reason for living. She must have been the typical trophy wife. 

"What? A van? Are you kidding?" 

"Can you show us the garage, please?" 

The woman shrugged and led the way. 

"Don't tell me I'm a suspect," she said incredulous, as she opened the garage door. 

"We're just making routine inquiries," Detective Avila assured her. "We have no suspect, yet." 

"Oh. Well, you can erase my name from your list. He is... was a son of a bitch, but we were divorced. I gave him five years of my life, and I think it's enough. I wouldn't sacrifice the rest of it for that bastard. I didn't have anything to do with him anymore, except for alimony." 

Grissom and Catherine took a glance at the inside of the garage. One Porsche. One Volvo. No old van. 

"Did you leave your home during the latest hours, Mrs. Chambers?" the detective asked. 

"God, no. I was sleeping." 

"Can I talk to your daughter?" 

"Mandy? Sorry, she isn't here. We... we don't get along. She stays at a friend's." 

"So you were at home alone?" 

"Yes, yes. But my sister called me at 11.30 p.m. Check, if you don't believe me. That damn prick. He manages to be a pain in the ass even after death." 

"Did you know your ex-husband was into child pornography?" 

For a moment, the woman seemed at a loss. She recovered quickly. "Well, he had strange sexual tastes. It's the reason why I divorced him." 

"Did you report him?" 

"Good heavens, no! I didn't need a scandal. I... had some problems with alcohol, a few years ago, and he worked in one of the most important offices in town. He could have destroyed me in court. No, we simply came to an agreement. For Mandy's sake, as well as for my own, so that we could maintain our life style." 

"As far as you know, was anyone angry with him?" 

She gave a brief, amused laugh. "Probably half the town?" 

"Well, this certainly shortens the list of suspects," Catherine whispered in Grissom's ear. 

"Can you tell me where we can find Mandy?" Avila continued. 

"Sure, I'll go and get my address book. But don't believe anything coming out of her dirty mouth. She's a liar, that bitch." 

"I'll bear it in mind," Avila promised flatly. 

He exchanged a look with the forensics experts, as she headed back to the house. 

"I don't think she'll win the Best Mom of the Year award, " Catherine commented. 

"I don't know," Grissom countered, matter-of-factly. "Think about our crime weapon." 

Catherine sighed. "Yeah. At this point, everything is possible." 

* * *

"So, he kicked the bucket," Mandy Chambers said flatly, closing the door behind her back. "I'm glad." 

Through the window, Catherine cast an eye at the people inside: a woman and a teen-age girl sitting at the table, trying not to look too curious or worried. They had already testified that Mandy had been at home all night. 

"When did you last see him?" Detective Avila asked. 

She shrugged. "On Christmas Day. As usual, he came to offer gifts, hoping to win me back. I've always found him creepy as Santa Claus." 

She hadn't taken after her mother. She was plump. She had long, untidy red hair parted in the middle that almost hid her face. She wore a pair of red socks, light blue men's pajamas and an old, dark green cardigan with a hole in it. 

"Do you think your mother or anyone else would have a reason to kill him?" 

She chuckled, bitterly. Her eyes were restless. They scrutinized her slippers, her pajama bottoms, the garden, the street, Catherine, everything but Avila or Grissom. 

"My mom? That maniac bothered me starting when I was eight, and she didn't lift a finger until she was sure she could leave him without losing her precious social and financial standing. Her golf club membership was more important to her than my safety and sanity. So, no, I wouldn't say she had a reason to kill him." 

"Where is your car, Mandy?" Grissom asked. 

She pointed at a red Mini parked in the alley. 

"Does your boyfriend own a van?" Avila inquired. 

She smirked, ironically. "I have no boyfriend. You know, Ray said I was beautiful. I tried not to look like that anymore. It worked, don't you think?" 

"What about your other friends?" 

"I have none, except for Lori." She nodded towards the window. "I met her at the dietary disorder clinic. Her mother has let me stay here since my last fight with my mother. Any more questions?" 

"Not at the moment. But, please, keep yourself available." 

"Sure." She shrugged again before sliding back into the house. 

Catherine felt uneasy. Her life's plan had always included at least one child. She had hoped it would be a girl. She had already decided the name: Lindsey. Eddie wanted to be a father too. He was a good guy in some respects, probably the best she could have met in a strip club. And for all that it mattered, she was sure he would make a good father, too. Sometimes she thought it was time to try. Then she would change her mind. She told herself it was for financial reasons, for the still dubious income from Eddie's video producer job. But her earnings had always been enough to support them both, either as a lap dancer or as a forensics expert. The reason must have been a different one, and she suspected it was what she saw everyday. She yearned to be a mother. But not in a world like this. Perhaps one day she would convince herself that if she were good enough, her child wouldn't suffer like most of the people she met while doing her job. That day she would conceive her daughter or son, and she just hoped she wouldn't end up regretting it. 

* * *

Scout snorted, watching the Road Runner whiz, beeping across the desert while a big rock reduced Wile E. Coyote to an accordion. He felt for the Coyote. He admired his cleverness. And it irked him that his efforts always came to nothing. Wile E. was just incredibly unlucky. Scout would have liked to see him catch the odious bird, for once, even if he knew the coyote would have eaten his prey. Truth be told, he felt a bit guilty about this, but consoled himself with the thought that Wile E. might consider himself satisfied with beating his nemesis. 

He watched in wonder as Wile E. Coyote carried out his new plan. 

Uncle Ned grunted behind him. Great. He was almost there. Scout knew. Could read every nuance of those grunts and moans. 

Levering himself on Ned's thighs, he changed angle slightly and slowly moved back against the man's lap. Ned moaned louder. The grip on Scout's bare hips tightened. _Okay. Ooo_ - _kay. That's good. Go on like this_. The sooner Ned came, the sooner he would leave him alone. And for the rest of that day he probably wouldn't have to worry about it again. Unless Ned felt like doing it when he finished his afternoon shift, of course. But one thing at a time. That was the secret. Just think about one thing at a time. 

Wile E. Coyote tried it again. 

Scout's eyes followed attentively his every action on the screen. His brain registered every detail of what he was seeing. His body kept on moving. Slowly. Efficiently. Repeating moves it had learned and perfected with practice. 

"Mmm, you're hurting me, Uncle Ned," his voice maintained with feeling. He never managed to take it all the way in. Too big. But he knew how to get Ned off anyway. "I like it. Hurt me more," he went on. 

Ned groaned. "You're a whore. You're my little whore, aren't you?" he murmured, hoarsely. He licked Scout's bare head, while his right hand shifted to caress the boy's belly and moved down to touch him _there_. 

Scout shuddered and bit the inside of his mouth, fighting the urge to shove those dirty fingers away. _No. Stop. Stop this. Don't feel. Wrong. Must be wrong. You. Like him. Little whore_. 

Wile E. Coyote was building a complicated machinery that included a stick of dynamite and an anvil. 

Scout swallowed blood. "Yes, I'm your whore. I like taking it from behind." _Come. Come. Come now. Get a move on_. 

Ned cried out. Tensed. Plopped back on the bed. Let go of him. Forgot about him. 

Relief. This, too, had passed. Scout inhaled deeply, broke free and let himself slide down on the floor. Stickiness. Warm, like blood. But it probably wasn't blood. His body had gotten used. It almost never bled anymore. It must have been that viscid, slimy stuff. He ignored it. 

He sat as usual with his buttocks on his ankles, so as not to feel the soreness. His mind was already elsewhere. 

He almost giggled when Wile E. exploded. A few seconds later the anvil fell on the coyote's head and drove him into the ground. No blood. No blood. There was never blood, when Wile E. was struck on the head. 

* * *

"I'm here about the Chambers case," Catherine announced. "Brass is hurrying us. The victim had important acquaintances. I just hope they didn't know who they'd had to deal with. Did you find a match?" 

Yoko Sasaki tapped the monitor screen with the results of the DNA search. "The substance on the pillow was biological. High salt content. Definitely tears. Male DNA. Unluckily, the CODIS hasn't kicked out a name. But. I catalogued other four different DNA on the basis of the semen samples and hair you picked up at the crime scenes, and I got one ID, apart from Chambers. Damien Kava. They got him on indecent exposure last week. Caught in the public gardens while he was showing the family jewels to a five-year-old little girl." 

Catherine looked at the monitor over the lab technician's shoulder. 

She shook her head. "Really interesting acquaintances. But he's still in jail. He can't be our killer." 

"Well, I left the best for last. The DNA from a sample of semen and a hair is a match to the DNA found in another crime scene." 

Catherine raised her eyebrows. A prickle along her spine told her that they were on the right track. "Tell me." 

Sasaki pressed a button. A crime scene photo appeared on the screen. Catherine winced. 

"Joey Cardia, 7, kidnapped four years ago in Metropolis and found with his throat cut two weeks later in Wichita. And now the prints. I scanned them through AFIS. A partial print you lifted from Chambers's house seems to match a partial print taken from the throat of Tommy Geller, 6, kidnapped two years ago in Dodge City and found strangled 32 days later in Durango, Colorado." Sasaki hit the keys again to show the red reference dot on the aligned prints and the image of the second victim. 

"Bastard," Catherine murmured. "And shrewd. Partial prints and supposed matches aren't enough, I fear." 

The young woman gave her a sly smile. "Guess what. We have a full print, too." She tapped on her keyboard, comparing the three print images. Three red reference dots appeared on the new yellow print on the right. They matched two reference dots in each of the partial ones on the left. She put the blue print over the other two. "Here it is. Perfect." 

"Where does it come from?" Catherine inquiried, confused. 

Another crime scene picture appeared. A woman, this time. "It was taken from the scene of a recent homicide. Laureen McKenzy, 38, housewife and mother of two, killed seventeen days ago in a mall dressing-room in Colby, Kansas." 

"Thirty-eight? She doesn't correspond to the victims' profile." 

"I'm not finished. We have another match with prints lifted from the E.R of the Denver Hospital. Assault against a 29-year-old nurse. Elena Maino, from the Milan Niguarda Hospital, here for a 6-month cultural exchange program." 

Catherine frowned. "A rape?" 

"No, she was just attacked. Stunned with a blow on the head. According to the police report, the assailant introduced himself as Steve Conroy. He had taken to the hospital his son Danny, 9, who suffered from a dislocated shoulder. The names and address proved to be false. But listen to this: they lifted 35 prints from the dressing-room and 26 from the assault scene at the hospital. Two match, and aren't our self-styled Conroy's." 

Catherine eyes widened. "The boy," she deduced. Yeah, finally the puzzle pieces were starting to fit together. "Was no hair picked up in any of those crime scenes to match with the tear DNA from last night's homicide?" She managed to maintain her voice steady, and she was very proud of herself, considering the mixture of rage and fear and disgust pooling at the bottom of her stomach. 

Sasaki shook her head. "No." 

"And yet, he must be our boy. Are you sure you didn't find a match with the missing children profiles?" 

"I'm sure. I checked the pornographic photos, too. None of those children are in the database. Apparently, nobody reported our kid's missing." 

That made no sense. Unless... Pedophiles often chose strays, unwanted kids, needy children from broken homes. Prostitutes, drug addicts... These people could leave their children to strangers and even forget about them for days. This is the way they let their kids fall into the hands of perverts. 

"You did an excellent job, Yoko," she congratulated her. 

"Thanks. We're dealing with a serial killer, aren't we?" Sasaki asked, a hint of awe in her voice. 

"We're dealing with a fucking monster," Catherine corrected, before exiting the lab. This time she wasn't that disappointed for not having curbed her tongue. 

* * *

Grissom nodded, thoughtful, leaning against his chair's back. "So. Our man probably comes from Kansas, or at least Kansas is his favorite game reserve. He's now putting some distance between the crime scene and himself, as he does after every kidnapping. In fact, he's traveling west with a young boy, who's likely to be his latest victim, the one who cried on that pillow." He talked like a professor taking a class, one who cared more for the subject than for the audience. "The housewife, the nurse, the fellow pedophile weren't his main targets. His targets have always been the children. The three adults must have been collateral damages. They probably were in the wrong place in the wrong moment. They stood in his way. Do we have an Identikit from those former crime scenes?" 

"Nobody witnessed the murders. And the Denver P.D. wasn't that meticulous about its investigations. This was considered just one of the various attacks perpetrated against the E.R. doctors and nurses in the latest months. Anyway, I asked for a description from the nurse and the doctor in charge of the boy at the Denver Hospital. I expect it no later than tomorrow." 

"I'll ask Brass to push them." 

"What's our next move?" Catherine asked. 

"The road blocks didn't stop any suspect. Unless he anticipated them, he's probably still in town. Avila is questioning Chambers's friends and colleagues. We're going to check his computer and his office. We need to find anything that lead us to the suspect. And we have to do it soon. The boy, whoever he is, is an eyewitness. If he isn't already dead, he's going to be our man's fifth victim." 

* * *

Catherine didn't need the help of a computer expert to check Chambers's PC. He hadn't hidden anything. He must have felt very confident. Untouchable. Above suspicion. This irked her. But ultimately made her work easier. 

According to the brower history, Chambers spent time surfing at least nine different sites, forums, blogs and chatrooms for pedophiles. Some names were ambiguous -- Peter Rabbit's Lair, Alice's Daddy Wonderland, Charlie's Most Beautiful Toys... - others absolutely above suspicion. She discovered that Chambers had exchanged pornographic stuff even via sites normally used to download music files. She took note of the addresses in order to alert the FBI, in case they weren't investigating them yet. 

But the most interesting information came from the personal e-mails. Half a dozen names in his buddy list. Chambers seemed to have filed every letter he had sent and received in appropriate folders. She examined them. Spent almost an hour reading correspondence between perverts and admirably fighting back the urge to puke. In the end, her attention focused on the folder labeled HUNTER. 

As it turned out, the victim had known a fellow pedophile nicknamed Hunter thanks to the blog "Charlie's Most Beautiful Toys". They had started emailing each other almost a year before, presumably after exchanging opinions via the blog for a while. She pulled up the most recent e-mails. 

March 12. 

_So you got him released and he ran away. LOL. You're my hero. Wish I could have seen their faces_. 

_My compliments_ ,   
_Hunter_. 

March 14 

_He's a jerk and a fool. You can't steal a four_ - _year_ - _old kitty in front of her owner and hope to get away with it. We were lucky that cop beat him and that I could use it against the PD. I scared the shit out of them. I got him released even before they found out his driving license was false. If ever you get into trouble, you know who you can address to. In every town. I have a list of lawyers like me who give their legal services to friends in all the U.S. at a special price. I'm sending it to you here attached_. 

_Daddy Bear_

"Dear God," Catherine spat, as she printed the attached file and added it to the list of pedophile sites. 

April 14: 

_I've got a new pet. You should see him. I'm sure you'll never have any specimen of his kind in your collection_. 

_Hunter_

Catherine tensed and leaned forward. 

April 15: 

_You arouse my curiosity. Tell me about your new pet. Is he really that special_? 

_Daddy Bear_

April 17: 

_He's beautiful, docile and well_ - _trained, my friend. You'd like him_. 

_Hunter_

April 21: 

_We're in Vegas. I'd like to stay here for a while. We have to keep a low profile, you know. Once you said I had a friend here. Can you help me find a house and a job_? _I'm running out of money_. 

_Hunter_

April 22: 

_Sure I can help you. I'd do anything for my friends. Did you get into serious trouble_? 

_Daddy Bear_

April 22: 

_No trouble. Kevin likes Vegas. I need just to settle and not draw attention to myself for a while_. 

_Hunter_

April 22: 

_Okay, I think I can find you a job. I'm curious to see your Kevin_. 

_Daddy Bear_

April 23: 

_Attached are some of his photos_. 

_Hunter_

Catherine opened the file. Four squalid snapshots of a naked, pale, skinny red-haired kid with scarred lips distorted in a forced smile and haunted gray-blue eyes. They were taken against a bare wall covered with a faded yellow wall-paper. He looked like a lost, little ghost, or a concentration camp prisoner waiting to be shot. She felt a lump form in her throat. She was about to print the photos when it dawned on her they showed something familiar. She pulled up the photos they had found in Chambers's house, scanned by Sasaki. She willed herself to review them again. Stopped when she recognized the red-haired boy. These were more professional. The kid sat for the photographer on the armchair and the bed in Chambers's house, nearby and in the swimming-pool. He was always naked. Sometimes he touched himself. Sometimes he smiled. His eyes were invariably void. In one shot he was sucking off a man with black pubic hair. In another he was taking it from behind from what seemed to be the same man. The man was visible only at the waist. Unrecognizable. 

Catherine printed the photos and ran the program to search the location for the sender terminal. After a moment, the computer beeped. It spat out eight IP addresses. It blinked on screen as it located the street addresses and location. Hunter had used eight different computers, in eight different Internet points. Three of them were in different Las Vegas quarters. That man was no fool. 

She resumed her instructive reading. 

April 23: 

_Well, he doesn't impress me that much. The pic quality is terrible. Can't you do something better_? 

_Daddy Bear_

April 23: 

_Sorry, I've got only a Polaroid and, as settings, the motel room and my van. If you find us a more comfortable place, you'll be able to photograph him yourself as you please_. 

_Hunter_

And he did it, didn't he? She thought angrily, swallowing the lump in her throat. 

April 24: 

_Hunter, come and see me. You're invited along with your pet, of course. I've got a swimming pool. I'm sure he'll enjoy it. And I bet you'll like my house. I might put you up for a few days, while you're looking for a better accommodations. We'll talk about it. Let's see how things turn out_... 

_Daddy Bear_

Things must have taken a turn for the better, Catherine reasoned. Hunter and the boy had spent several days at Chambers's, until "Conroy" had decided to put an abrupt end to their association. 

Daddy Bear had promised to find his friend a job. Hunter probably hadn't left the city yet. Hunter needed money. What he had stolen from Chambers's house couldn't possibly support him and the boy for long, especially if they had to pay rent. Would Hunter be so stupid, desperate or confident as to keep the job Chambers had found him? 

She was about to call Grissom, when her cell phone rang. With his calm voice, Gil informed her that an old, light blue van had been located in the parking lot of Chambers's office. 

* * *

His name was Victor Ramsey. His driving license was in order. He had no criminal record. The van was registered under his name. 

Ramsey's address was no longer the one he had given to the personnel office when he had been engaged as a messenger boy. The motel receptionist said he had left on April 26th, along with his son. The boy must have impressed Daddy Bear a lot, Catherine had told herself. Chambers had made them move to his house just two days after having seen him. 

"That man mistook me for someone else. I travel alone," Ramsey was telling Detective Avila. 

"He's screwed. The evidence nails him," whispered Brass with a confidence Catherine didn't feel. "I just hope he hasn't already gotten rid of the kid." 

Many people were waiting for the interrogation results. Brass's contact in the FBI had informed him that at least other four cases of kidnapping and murder between Kansas, Colorado, Nebraska and Oklahoma presented similarities with the Cardia and Geller ones. Maybe they had just caught one of the worst serial killers in circulation. 

Catherine scrutinized the suspect through the one-way mirror as he sat at the table in the interview room. Around 35, slim and slouching. Straight black hair, forelock, oval yellowish face, round, bovine eyes. He had a slightly slimy air, but looked rather innocuous. The kind of man you see and immediately forget behind the counter of a post office or a library. The kind of man you imagine spending his evening at home, watching TV alone or with his elderly mother. 

"Where is the boy?" Avila inquiried for the second time. 

"My client already answered this question," Stan Levy lamely objected. He was a counsel for the defense. He was young, and not that eager to defend a man who presumably had killed a fellow lawyer. 

"Then tell your client that evidence links him to several crime scenes, going back as far as four years ago." 

Avila displayed the photos on the table. 

Ramsey looked at them with an expression of kind and detached interest, the same he had sported when they had arrested him at his place of work. Catherine still wondered if he had perfected it through years of practice or whether he actually felt like that. Mildly curious. Almost pleasantly surprised to be at the center of someone else's attention. 

"What do you tell me about these?" Avila asked. "Did you know this boy? He lived in your neighborhood four years ago, before being kidnapped and murdered. Did you remember him?" 

His voice was calm, emotionless. He reminded her of Grissom, in a way. As if summoned, Gil materialized at her side. She had left him in the CSI Unit lab, working on the evidence they had picked up from the van. 

"Good stuff?" Brass asked, casting an eye at the folder he carried in his hand. 

"Good stuff," Gil confirmed. He held it out. 

The head of the CSI night shift waved a hand and nodded towards the door. "The case is yours. And we'll save time if you go in yourself." 

Gil complied. They watched him enter and sit beside Avila, as Ramsey replied: "No, sorry. I don't recognize him. But... in these conditions... Honestly, this photo doesn't help me. It's terrible. His face..." 

Avila placed another series of photos on the table. The victims as they appeared before their death. The detective fingered one of them. "Do you recognize him, now?" 

Ramsey leaned closer. "May I?" 

"Please." 

Ramsey reached for the portrait of the boy. Examined it. Sighed. Put it back on the table. 

"Sorry. I don't remember." 

"Joey Cardia. A hair of yours was found on the crime scene," Avila informed him. "Can you explain it?" 

Ramsey frowned. Thought -- or pretended to think - it over for a moment. "Well, I used to collect comics and action figures. Some kids would come to see them, now and then. Perhaps he was one of them, and this is why you found that hair on his body." 

"It wasn't on his body. It was on the floor." 

Ramsey shrugged. "It must have fallen." 

Grissom chose that moment to lean forward, resting his forearms on the table and interlacing his fingers. 

"Okay, let's stop playing." 

Catherine flinched at the impatience in his tone. It was the first time he had given her the impression of being close to losing his temper. 

"You're involved in at least four murders. We can prove it." 

"All you have is circumstantial evidence," Levy observed flatly. 

Grissom continued as if he hadn't even spoken. "Perhaps five murders. What about Timmy, Victor?" 

Ramsey's lean face tensed, his lips twitched uneasily. 

"What do you mean?" 

Grissom displayed the printout of an old newspaper front page. Catherine had found that information on the Internet, soon after Ramsey had been arrested. 

"Timothy Ramsey," Grissom went on. "Five years old. A beautiful kid, don't you think?" he asked, tapping the photo. "Drowned in the bathtub. It sounds strange to me, considering he was your little brother." 

"That was an accident!" Ramsey exclaimed, losing his composure for the first time. 

"It was _dismissed_ as an accident. But you were fifteen, then. You were strong enough. I wonder: is it possible he was your first victim? You tried to rape him and he resisted, didn't he?" 

"It. Isn't. True," Ramsey spat, with staring eyes. 

"You made a mistake, Victor. We know there was a kid with you when you killed the woman in Colby. He was with you when you murdered Raymond Chambers. We have his DNA from the tears he left on the pillow." Grissom opened the folder, produced a small transparent bag. "And this is an eyelash we found in your van. It matches the tears. He was there. He traveled with you. You killed before his eyes." He took out one of the "little ghost" photos Catherine had printed from Chambers's PC. Took out a sheet Catherine hadn't seen yet. The Identikit. "You were seen together at the Denver Hospital. His hair was a different color, but it was him. Two witnesses can recognize you. They'll identify you and the boy as soon as they see your photos." 

Ramsey bit his lower lip. "I knew I should have killed them, those damn busybodies," he murmured under his breath. 

"Mr. Ramsey, I warn you not to tell anything that could..." Levy butted in. 

Ramsey ignored him. "Well, I hit her. She's alive, that bitch, isn't she? I'll be out of here in less than... 

"You won't be free anymore. You'll probably be sentenced to death, Mr. Ramsey. But your collaboration might favorably impress the jury. Tell me where the boy is." 

"Are you suggesting an agreement?" Levy asked. 

Grissom didn't even look at him. His eyes were locked with Ramsey's. 

"I'm suggesting you should do the right thing, for once in your life." 

Ramsey smirked. "This is crazy. How many prints and DNA samples did you pick up in that dressing-room and that lawyer's house? And even if I had been there, who says I'm the killer? I'm clean. I'm a honest citizen. You don't have anything beyond circumstantial evidence, as this idiot claims..." Levy shifted uneasily in his chair, "... and you say this mysterious boy might frame me. If I actually were the murderer, why should I help you find him?" 

"Because we'll find him anyway, with or without your help. But, in the meantime, you know how this world is... " Grissom's tone had become understanding, almost friendly. "It's dangerous, and cruel. He's alone. And there are bad people out there. Someone who can take advantage of the situation... Like Chambers. You just wanted to protect him from that bastard, didn't you?" 

Ramsey looked floored, for the first time. 

"Why didn't you leave town?" 

Another pause. "He... he likes it. We feel... felt at ease here." 

"I thought so. Everything was okay before Chambers interfered in your menage, wasn't it? There was just you and him. What does he call you, Victor?" 

"U-uncle Ned." 

Grissom nodded, as if he thought it a sweet name. "He trusts you, Victor," he went on, in a serious, concerned tone. "Don't let him down." 

Ramsey squeezed his eyes, as if trying to gather his ideas. Then opened them. Swallowed. "We... we moved to another motel, in the outskirts." 

Grissom pushed a ball-point pen and a piece of paper towards him. 

"This is the right choice, Victor. Write the motel's name and address." 

Ramsey complied. 

Avila grabbed the paper and got up, ready for action. Then hesitated. "What's the boy's real name, Ramsey?" Avila asked. 

Ramsey grinned. For a moment, he seemed to have recovered all his arrogance. "You didn't find him in the database, did you?" he said, triumphantly. "I knew it. That son of a bitch didn't report the kid's disappearance." 

"Who are you talking about?" 

Ramsey let out an outright laugh. "The boy's father. That Luthor bastard. And the delinquent would be me? It isn't surprising that the boy loves me." 

For what seemed an eternity, the revelation held everyone in and outside the room captive. Eventually, Avila headed for the door, breaking the spell of stillness and silence. He looked at Brass, perplexed. 

"Do you think it's possible? If not the media, we, at least, should have heard of it. Sometimes the kidnappers ask the parents not to alert the police, but this doesn't make sense. The boy wasn't kidnapped for a ransom." 

Catherine tried to conjure up the few images of the Luthor heir -- Alexander? -- she had seen in the papers. Compared that well-dressed, privileged kid with her frail, wide-eyed little ghost. Imagined the Luthor boy thinner, his hair of a less intense shade of red. Then remembered a snapshot stolen at the hospital exit after the meteor accident, cast in the front page of a tabloid at a newsstand. The vulnerability and fear she had read in those eyes, which seemed suddenly huge, wide open in the boy's now-bare head. 

"It might be him," she whispered, before even realizing she had opened her mouth. 

Brass rubbed his cheek. "The FBI might be working on the case. Luthor surely has the money and power to keep the thing confidential, but before calling the man we'd better make sure his heir has really been kidnapped. I'll investigate. I'll look for a photo of the Luthor heir on the Internet. If he looks like our boy, I'll get in touch with a friend of mine in the Bureau." 

"Great. I'll go to the motel. I hope Ramsey didn't lie." 

"I'll join you in a while," Catherine promised. "We'll have to scrutinize the room, if they actually lived there." 

Avila and Brass left her alone. She turned to the interrogation room. 

Inside the room, an agent was taking Ramsey away. Grissom was placing his material back in the folder. 

"I would have never hurt him," Ramsey said. "Please, tell him I love him. Tell him I'll never forget him," he begged in a quiet voice, before the door closed behind him. 

Gil didn't reply, didn't lift his gaze. Took his folder and headed for the door. 

"How did you know?" Catherine asked, while they strode towards the exit. 

"What?" 

"How to strike the right note." 

"He didn't leave town, although he had a chance to do so. It's the first time he made that mistake. And he did it because he believed he and the boy were happy here. He had committed murder in front of him, and he wasn't going to get rid of the only witness who would send him to jail." 

"If he's really alive." 

"I think so. I was wrong about that. The boy's life wasn't in danger. Ramsey killed because of the boy. You read the letters. He offered the boy to Chambers, but then he realized he couldn't share him with anyone else. He killed Chambers because he was jealous." 

"He made my skin crawl when he used the word love," Catherine said. 

"A pervert has perverted feelings and perverted needs. Perhaps it wasn't so at first, but Ramsey actually convinced himself it was love, and in the name of that love he destroyed whoever and whatever interfered with his plans." 

Including the object of his passion, Catherine thought, as Grissom opened the door and the dazzling sunlight greeted them. The boy might not be physically dead, but she was ready to bet he had often wished he were. 

* * *

Scout was on the swing, lazily pushing himself back and forth, when the men arrived. Two men and a woman with a blond ponytail, to be precise. He immediately stopped, tightening the grip around the chains. The swing still swayed a little, and his feet dragged across the sandy ground of the small motel's park. He watched the receptionist lead the men and the woman towards the room he and Uncle Ned had been sharing the last few days and open the door. 

His mouth went dry, as his mind frantically considered the possibilities. They could have been Uncle Ned's friends, like Ray. He had promised there would be no one else, after Ray had... after Ray had gone, but he could have changed his mind. In that case they probably wouldn't need the receptionist's key, though. Besides, as far as he knew, Uncle Ned had no female friends. 

They must have been at his father's command. They had found them. And he was alone. But they hadn't seen him yet. Maybe they wouldn't even recognize him. He always followed Uncle Ned's instructions to the letter. _Never leave the room. If you need to go out, never leave the courtyard. If you leave the room or someone knocks at the door, never forget your disguise. If something strange happens, call me_. 

He could get up and walk away, slowly, quietly, trying not to draw attention. He would call Uncle Ned from a public phone and ask him to come and get him. They would leave town. Needed to leave town. 

_Then get a move on_! He tried to stand up, but he couldn't move, as if he were glued to the seat. _Get up and run_! _Move_! 

The strangers exited the room. Looked around. The receptionist pointed a finger in Scout's direction. _Traitor_. The unknown people walked towards him. The receptionist stood where he was. They wouldn't dare kidnap or kill him in front of the man. Oh, but they must have paid him well. The receptionist turned and headed back for his bungalow at the motel entrance. Scout imagined him in the act of counting his dirty money. A wave of nausea washed over him. 

_Get up and run. Now_. His hands were sweating. Slid down along the swing chains. It was too late to run. They'd catch him. They'd kill him. 

_Wait. Calm down. Take it easy_. They were mistaking him for someone else. He would tell them. 

They stood before him, against the sunlight. The younger man was tall, olive-skinned, dark-haired, a latino type. The other didn't seem a killer. He had intelligent blue eyes, and his whiskers were growing gray. He looked a bit like his math teacher. The blond woman was slender and beautiful, and wore a tight-fitting turquoise shirt under her elegant black jacket. 

They looked at him with a perplexed expression. After a moment, the woman leaned down. She studied his face and clothes carefully. 

"Alexander?" she questioned, finally. 

He swallowed. "My name is Scout," he maintained, steadily. 

"I'm Catherine Willows," said the blonde. "I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. These are my colleague Gil Grissom and Detective Robert Avila. Alexander... 

"I'm Scout," he repeated stubbornly, almost in despair. 

The latino reached for his hair. Before Scout could react, the wig was in the man's hands. 

Scout gasped. Terrified, he cast a glance around, looking for a way out. 

A hand came to rest kindly on his knee. The woman had knelt on the ground before him. 

"Alexander, it's over.. We're here to help you." 

_I'm here to help you_. Even if... He couldn't let this happen again. He feverishly inspected with his gaze the motel, the courtyard, the bushes beyond the wire netting. 

"You have to go," he whispered. 

"Alexander, don't worry. It's okay. It's gonna be okay. You're safe with us." 

_Don't worry. You'll be safe_. He felt cold inside. Felt sick. 

"You don't understand," he insisted in a conspiratorial tone. "He sees everything. He could be here at any moment." 

She held out her hand. "We'll protect you. Come with me. Your father must be..." 

Scout froze. Clenched his fists around the chains so hard his fingers hurt. 

Saw the man named Grissom lean down and put a hand on the woman's shoulder. 

"Uncle Ned sent us," Grissom informed Scout. "He told us where we could find you. It isn't safe for you anymore, here. Uncle Ned is with our colleagues. He won't come back tonight." 

Scout squinted. Hesitated. Looked the man dead in the eye, trying to decide if he could trust him. Those calm, blue eyes said yes. 

_He won't come back tonight. Won't come back tonight_. What did that mean? Las Vegas Crime Lab. Detective Robert Avila. Police. Was Uncle Ned in prison? Was everything over? _One thing at a time_. What if this Avila was a friend of his? _Money goes everywhere. His spies are everywhere_. Well, he didn't know. Couldn't know. I would say so to Uncle Ned. _I didn't know. They came and took me away. It's not my fault_. He would say... 

"Alexander?" 

_Alexander, it's over. Over. Over_. 

_Do it. Do it now_. 

He slowly slid down the swing, smoothed his frock and took the hand Catherine Willows was offering him. 

_Don't let them fool you. We'll stick together, Scout. I'm telling you the truth. Nobody's going to stop us_. 

_Over_. 

"I'd like to change my clothes," Lex said, flatly. 

"Sure, we'll buy something along the way," Avila said. 

"Go with them," Grissom told Catherine. "I'll take care of the room on my own. I'll call Brass if I need reinforcements." 

She nodded and led him out of the motel. 

_Out_. 

To the parking lot. 

_One foot in front of the other_. 

There was a police car. 

_A real police car_. 

He climbed on the back seat, beside Catherine Willows. While they pulled away, he smoothed again his lavender dress. Studied the back of Avila's head. Turned to Catherine. She smiled at him as his mom would. 

_Don't be silly, Alexander. Monsters don't exist. There's nothing under your bed. Look. Take a look_. 

Catherine put a hand on his shoulder, starting to get closer. He held still. She didn't attempt another move. 

_It's over, Alexander. Believe it. Believe me_. 

_Don't trust anyone. Money goes everywhere. His spies are everywhere_. 

_One thing at a time_. 

He looked out of the window. A ride in a police car. Funny. It might be a dream. _Enjoy it as far as you can_. 

_Don't trust anyone_. 

_They'll stop in a desert alley and shoot you in the head_. 

_Over_. 

_I looked under the bed, mummy. I saw it. I saw HIM. I looked him in the eyes_. 

_One thing at a time_. 

* * *

Doctor Nichols removed the sheet from the clipboard and handed it to Catherine. 

"You'll have to wait a few hours for the blood test results." 

"Of course." 

She opened her folder and attached the doctor's report to the sheet labeled LAS VEGAS METROPOLITAN POLICE DEPARTMENT: SEXUAL ASSAULT REPORT FORM. Her eyes briefly flew over the medical terminology: state of shock... anal trauma... lacerations in the distal portion of the rectum... recent cicatrix... upper lip.... trauma... right shoulder... It shouldn't have upset her. She had expected it. She had seen the pictures. Read the Denver Hospital report. But it didn't make it any easier. 

The doctor turned to the boy sitting on the edge of the bed, head down, shoulders slouched under the light blue hospital gown, hands joined on his lap. 

Catherine heard the forced smile in Dr. Nichols's voice as she said: "You were really good, kiddo. Now you can put on your clothes again." 

The boy didn't look up. Catherine felt a little guilty. She had noticed the tension in him, while they stopped before the hospital. But she needed to gather all the evidence she could as soon as she could, whatever was necessary to keep that pervert in jail so he wouldn't hurt anyone else. 

She had subjected the boy to some of those examinations herself. Had watched him undergo those and other tests, even the more unpleasant ones, without a wince, without asking a question, with the same resignation and passivity she imagined he had endured Ramsey's violence. 

Vivianne Nichols looked briefly at her, black eyes filled with grief in her kind, dark face. She exited the examination room without another word. Catherine remembered the doctor had once shown her the photos of her two children. 

She took the bag Avila had delivered while the boy was undergoing his examinations. She dug out the clothes and moved to sit beside him. 

"Look what Detective Avila brought you," she smiled, while spreading out on the boy's knees the black T-shirt with LVPD CSI written on the front under the printed police star and FORENSICS across the back. "None of your friends have this, I'm pretty sure." 

He looked at her, and she wondered if what she read in the kid's eyes was really irony or just a reflection of her own uneasiness. _What a lucky boy, eh_? 

She blushed slightly. "Well, I'll wait outside while you change." 

A hint of incredulity laced with the strange expression in the boy's gaze. _Are you kidding_? _You saw me. Everybody saw me_. 

She felt stupid and inadequate. She ought to reconsider that absurd idea of having a child. She didn't know how to deal with children. She would be a horrible, horrible mother. 

"Thank you", the kid murmured politely, taking her by surprise. 

She stood up quickly, almost moved, as if the boy were trying to cheer her up, in spite of his situation. She did wonder for a moment if this was his intention, then shook off that senseless thought. 

"Take your time," she said, heading for the door. 

She waited outside. 

* * *

"I got the results of the blood test," Catherine informed him in a low voice. "Negative." 

"Good. He's lucky." 

"Lucky. Yes," she echoed, bitterly. 

"Did you question him?" 

"I tried, but he wouldn't answer. He's suffering from shock, Gil." 

"That would be no surprise, considering all he's had to go through." 

Grissom raised his gaze from the report and studied the boy out of the corner of his eye. He was looking around curiously, taking in the various items on the shelves. Grissom had seen how the boy jumped when the Big Mouth Billy Bass above the office door had started singing. The kid had focused his attention on the fish for a while before moving on to the other specimens in Grissom's collection. At the moment, he was examining the embalmed piglet in the jar. 

"I called Social Services. Their psychologist should be here in few hours. Avila sent for the father. He agreed with me we'd better wait for them." 

The boy stood in wonder before the two-headed scorpion. 

Grissom nodded. "If he didn't speak to you, he probably isn't going to talk to anyone else." He removed his glasses. "You did a good job with the report." 

"Thanks. I would have liked to do something more." 

"We're forensics experts. We analyze the scene. We're not expected to deal with human needs and emotions. You did your job and did it well. Someone else will take care of him. There are people trained and paid just for that." 

She nodded, but looked uncertain. "Sorry, Gil. You're right, but sometimes it's hard to stay detached." 

"I know. And I don't demand this from you, as long as your feelings don't affect your work. I'm not good with people, but I assure you I understand." 

She gave a small crooked smile. "You seemed good enough with Ramsey." 

"A stroke of luck. I attended a seminar on pedophilia less than a year ago." 

She nodded again. "Okay. Listen, Brass has another case in hand. He's summoned me twice, already. What do we do with the boy until the doctor or his father arrive?" 

Grissom looked at him once more. He seemed hypnotized by the jars of embalmed organs stacked on the shelves. 

"Leave him here," Grissom said. "I think he's found something that engages his attention." 

She followed his gaze, then frowned. 

"Well, I'm not sure..." 

"Don't worry. He'll be okay." 

"But you..." She did seem concerned. 

"We'll get along. Go... and leave the door open." 

She nodded, although her blue eyes were filled with perplexity. 

"Alexander, I have some work to do. Can I leave you here for a while?" 

The kid briefly tore his eyes away from the jars. "Sure." 

She left the office, but not before stealing a final dubious glance at Grissom. 

He wondered if he had to take offense at her reaction. His success with Ramsey apparently hadn't improved his reputation, if she was so appalled by the mere prospect of leaving him with a child. Well, he was the first to admit he was accustomed more to studying people than dealing with them, but he was pretty sure he and this boy could find some common ground. 

"Do you like them?" he asked. 

The boy shrugged, examining a sea horse soaked in formaldehyde. 

"Are they yours?" 

"This is my office. Everything in here is mine. Well, except the furniture, of course. I've got an orange-kneed tarantula and an African red-baboon tarantula. Want to see them?" 

The child immediately looked around, unsuccessfully fighting back curiosity and desire. 

"There," Grissom helped him, pointing at the transparent cases. 

The boy quickly crossed the room, stopping right in front of them. 

Grissom stood up and joined him casually. The kid shifted slightly, putting a half-step distance between them. As if he hadn't noticed his move, Grissom started to explain the difference between the two specimens. 

The kid was wearing a pair of jeans and a Forensics T-shirt that was too big for him. This, along with his paleness, his baldness and his thin, delicate figure combined to convey an impression of extreme fragility. His mind went back to the medical report and those disgusting photos. He sucked in a breath, successfully striving to keep his composure. He wasn't that different from Catherine, after all. At least not where kids were concerned. Well, he couldn't stand the guys who hit on their wives, too, but children rapists and those bastards who sold drugs to kids were real scum to him. They deserved no mercy. 

"Why do you keep these things in your office?" the child inquiried. 

"Some of these things have a scientific purpose." He pointed to the pig fetus in the bottle. "For instance, that's an irradiated fetal pig. I used the tissue to determine the effects of radiation ... But I like to collect and study them. I love insects, arachnids and reptiles. Especially bugs. They're perfect. Predictable. I've got a maggot farm, at home." 

"I have an ant farm." 

"When I was about your age, I got first place in the science fair with my Argentine black ant colony." 

"Really?" the boy exclaimed. "I had thought to use mine as my science project too." 

Grissom smiled. "Go for it. Don't tell anyone else, but the bugs always win." 

He wondered what Catherine would think of him if she heard them now. He sounded child-like to his own ears. Curiously, he found it easier to talk with this kid than with most of the people he had to deal with everyday. 

"Do you carry a gun?" the boy asked suddenly. 

"Well... yes," he replied, taken aback. "Like my colleagues. Why?" 

"Have you ever fired it?" 

"No." 

"But you are a detective." 

"No, I'm a forensics expert. We analyze the crime scenes," he explained, realizing in that same moment he was repeating the cold definition he had given Catherine only some minutes before. "I'm a scientist," he corrected. "I scrutinize the crime scene and collect the evidence in order to recreate what happened without ever having been there." 

"You're a scientist?" the boy asked, fascinated. 

"Sure. I'll tell you more: I'm a science geek. At six, I nearly blew up the house when I was given a Chemlab 500 chemistry set." 

The boy's eyes widened. "I have one, too. I got it for Christmas last year." 

"Well, I hope you are more careful than me." 

The kid smiled. It was the first time Grissom had seen him smile. 

"So, how did you spend your time here?" 

He shrugged. "Catherine Willows gave me some papers and pencils. I drew in the waiting room." 

"I see. I believe I have something more interesting here, somewhere. Let me think... " He pretended to muse. Then nodded and went back to his desk. He opened a drawer and dig out the 500-piece puzzle he had bought the month before and hadn't found the time to do yet. 

"Do you like puzzles?" he asked, already guessing the answer. 

The boy nodded anxiously, admiring the Klimt painting on the box lid. 

"I was just looking for some help because I don't think I'll be able to do it all by myself." 

He opened the box and took the pieces out of the transparent package. He spread them on the desk and sat, pointing at the chair at the other side. The child complied. They started working quietly. Grissom smiled, noticing the boy's quickness. 

"You're very good. An expert, I'd say." 

"Pamela often buys them for me when we go to the toy store." 

Grissom had no idea who this Pamela was but didn't ask, for fear the boy might clam up. But he couldn't ignore the fact that Alexander was talking. Ha was talking to him, who wasn't a detective but was investigating a crime and whose duty was to find out whatever he could about it. If he could just get some information during that casual chat, without further traumatizing the boy... 

"Uncle Ned bought them for you, too?" he asked. 

He thought he had failed his attempt when his question met only silence. 

Then the boy replied, without raising his eyes from the picture forming under his slender fingers. "He bought me one with the picture of a unicorn. It was just 100 pieces. I finished it right away. We left it in the motel room." 

"Where?" Grissom questioned, keeping a casual tone. 

A brief pause while the kid thought over it. "Cedar City." 

_Cedar City, Utah_. 

"Uncle Ned bought you several things, did he?" 

Alexander nodded. "He bought me clothes, and comics, and candy, and a Spock Teddy Bear." 

_A Spock Teddy Bear_. 

"I think I saw it. I didn't know it was yours." 

The boy looked up but kept silent. 

"In Raymond Chambers's bedroom," Grissom explained. "When we analyzed the scene." 

The kid once again devoted himself to the puzzle. 

Grissom imitated him. "You know, they called us when they... found him. Why did you leave your teddy bear there? Did you forget it?" 

Another silence. Alexander worked on the puzzle with determination. "I don't think he was happy with us." 

"Us? You and Ramsey? Uncle Ned, I mean?" 

He didn't reply. 

"Why do you think your teddy bear wasn't happy?" 

The kid shrugged. "He had seen bad things." 

"He had to see bad things in Raymond's bedroom too." 

Pause. "That was the last bad thing he saw," the boy murmured after a while. 

Grissom cleared his throat. _Sometimes it's hard to stay detached_. "You saw it, too. There were three of you: Uncle Ned, Raymond and you." 

"Ray was good to me," the kid continued in a conversational tone. "He gave me licorice. And stickers. They made me feel good. Everything was easier when I licked them." 

Grissom grimaced. God forgive him: he was glad Chambers was dead. 

"Uncle Ned didn't like Ray," he said, in a low, serious voice. 

"He said he was his friend, that I had to be kind to him." 

"But he changed his mind, didn't he? He killed Ray and you saw it all. I know." 

Silence. Then, the kid looked up. Looked him dead in the eye. "Because you analyzed the crime scene?" 

God, he was smart. He was a terrific, extraordinary kid. And those perverts had destroyed a precious part of him forever. 

"Yes," he replied, simply. "We found evidence of your presence there. Ray is dead, and we arrested Ramsey... Uncle Ned. You don't have to worry." 

Suddenly, the boy's eyes shimmered with tears. His lips started quivering. 

Grissom found himself at a loss while the kid whimpered: "It wasn't my fault. I didn't want him to kill Ray and that woman in the mall and Ellie. Ray gave me the stickers and Ellie was pretty and kind to me at the hospital I didn't want him to kill Ellie I didn't want him to..." 

_Ellie. Ellie_? He suddenly remembered. Stood up, joined the boy at the other side of the desk and put his hands on his shoulders. 

"Calm down, Alex, it's all right. It isn't your fault, and Ellie's alive. She was just hurt." 

The kid blinked, and tears streaked down his cheeks. He studied Grissom's face. "She's alive," he repeated mechanically. 

Grissom nodded, trying to muster all his sincerity in his eyes. "Alive." 

The kid started shaking, the entire small body stirred by sobs. His nose and lips were dirty with mucus. He looked lonely, needy, small and pathetic, and in that precise moment he seemed to Grissom the saddest thing he had seen in his long career as a witness of the saddest and most shocking things in the world. Awkwardly, he wound an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer. The boy didn't try to break free. On the contrary, he slouched against his chest. His sobs became louder. 

"Calm down, Alex," Grissom soothed. "It's okay. It's over." 

When he looked up, he met Catherine's eyes. She was watching in wonder from the office door. _It's okay_ , he mouthed and nodded, motioning her to go away. 

She smiled and quietly moved back, leaving them alone. 

"It's okay," he repeated soothingly, unable to find something else to say. 

The way the kid clung to him told him there wasn't any need for more words. 

* * *

They were finishing the puzzle, when Lionel Luthor stormed in, a dark coat billowing around his tall, slender figure. 

"Mr Luthor, please!" Catherine's voice came from the hallway, a few seconds before she stumbled in. Apparently, she had been trying in vain to stop the man. 

"Lex!" Luthor exclaimed, eyes shimmering. "I looked for you everywhere." He stepped ahead, ignoring both her and Grissom. 

The kid had paled visibly. He twisted around to face the man. 

Luthor stepped ahead, his arms stretched towards his son. The boy jumped up and stood stiffly, pressing his back against the edge of the desk. 

"Mr. Luthor!" Grissom called. 

Luthor stopped, confusion written all over his strong features. 

"May I speak with you, sir?" Grissom asked, beckoning Catherine to take the kid away. 

She joined them and took Alexander's hand, pulling him gently out of the office. Luthor followed their maneuver with his gaze, but didn't try to stop them. He turned back to Grissom. 

"What does this mean, Mr. Grissom?" he inquiried, in a vaguely threatening tone. "I haven't seen my son for more than three weeks." 

Grissom motioned towards the chair the boy had occupied until a moment before. Luthor hesitated, then begrudgingly complied. 

When they both had made themselves comfortable, Grissom started: "Your son is in a state of shock. He went through a horrible experience." 

"I know that," the man ground out. 

"I was told not even the FBI was informed about the situation. May I ask you why you didn't report your son's disappearance?" 

Luthor gave him a wolfish smile. "Are you accusing me of something, Mr. Grissom?" 

"I'm only asking a simple question." 

"I have a very delicate business deal in hand. I couldn't risk jeopardizing everything. I know you policemen, you can't keep your mouths shut..." 

"I'm not a policeman." 

"... You're for sale to the highest bidder," Luthor continued, disregarding Grissom's reasoning. "In a second the news would have spread around the country, like that shameful photo of my boy at the hospital exit. You know how sensitive the stock quotes are to every little rumor. Many investors panic easily. I don't need to muddy the waters. There's a lot of money, a lot of jobs at stake." 

Grissom couldn't believe his ears. "So you decided to jettison the boy!" he concluded, unable to restrain the anger. 

Luthor seemed genuinely surprised. "Are you crazy? He's my only son. My best men were secretly working on it. Detectives, former policemen and soldiers. The best on the market. And I had already gathered a king's ransom while waiting for the kidnappers to contact me. Of course, my men would have tried to catch them at the moment of the exchange... 

"But your son wasn't held for ransom!" 

Luthor was losing some of his composure. "I didn't know that! How could I know? I'm Lionel Luthor. Lex is my only heir. I thought..." 

"He was away for twenty-three days, and you received no ransom demand. Didn't it strike you that it could be something else?" 

"I thought that maybe something had gone wrong during the kidnapping, " the man mumbled. "Perhaps Lex was dead, and that was why they demanded no ransom." 

"And you didn't call the police?!" 

"If my son was dead, nobody could do anything for him," Luthor justified himself, squaring his shoulders with dignity. "The news would only have endangered the company's interests. And my wife might as well believe that her son was alive a bit longer. But my men were under orders to keep on searching." 

"Your son's been in the hands of a pedophile for three weeks. Have you any idea what this means? And since you mentioned her, what does your wife say about all this?" 

"My wife is sick," the man maintained coldly. "She doesn't know anything and she'll continue not knowing." 

"What?" Grissom exclaimed, incredulous. "Where does she believe her son's been all this time?" 

"At school, in Switzerland, where I'll send him as soon as possible. He'll forget this whole upsetting incident." 

Grissom found himself taken aback again. "Are you kidding? He's traumatized. He needs help... 

"I pay an entire team of doctors to take care of him. The asthma, then the meteor accident, now this. At least I know they earn their outrageous salaries." 

"He'll have to give evidence in court anyway." 

"Forget it." 

"He will be heard on camera." 

"You must have other evidence, if you're doing your job well." 

"He's our only eyewitness. He was raped and witnessed two murders and an assault." 

Shock and fury blazed for a brief moment in the man's green-brown eyes. For the first time since his entrance, he seemed genuinely upset. Didn't he know, yet? Or had he not digested the news until now? 

Lionel Luthor blinked and managed to school his face into an impassive mask. He interlaced his slender fingers. 

"Keep my son's name - our name - out of this disgusting event, Mr. Grissom, or I swear you'll regret the day you were born." 

Grissom felt irked. This was the most arrogant and annoying bastard he had ever met. No wonder Ramsey's job had been a piece of cake. He had known how to use honey to catch the fly. 

"Then you should know that I love my job but I don't worry about committing professional suicide. I'd rather pursue the truth than politics." 

That wolfish smile again. "And are you ready to sacrifice your colleagues' careers, too?" 

Grissom fought back the impulse to slap that smile off Luthor's face. 

"There is evidence that prove your son's presence... 

"I forbid you to use that evidence, Mr. Grissom. I forbid you to involve the Luthors in your inquiry in any way. I was told you submitted my son to a series of tests without my permission. I want those test results. My lawyer is with your superior, at present. I want every detail concerning Lex classified. No news will leak out or this place will go bankrupt before you even have a chance to finish paying compensation for damages." 

"You can't do this." 

"Oh, I could, believe me. But it won't be necessary. I've got many acquaintances. Money can go everywhere." 

"Think of your son, at least." 

"That's exactly what I'm doing." 

"Don't you want to put in jail the man who hurt your son?" 

"Justice's ways are infinite," Luthor replied, with a sibylline smile. 

"Listen to me: your son will never get over this if he doesn't get the chance to deal with it, to face his rapist somehow." 

"Don't use that word again," Luthor spat. "Are you trying to teach me how to raise my son? How dare you? I bet you aren't even a father". 

"I'm not, but I know you owe this to him. Your behavior made that pervert's work easier. He used it to wash your son's brain. He told him he was keeping him safe from you." 

An incredulous look crossed Lionel's face. "This is absurd." 

"It didn't seem so to your boy, apparently." 

Luthor rose up abruptly. It was a quick movement, but graceful somehow. It reminded him of the boy's liquid, spontaneous grace. 

"I think I've given you enough of my time. I'm a busy man. Whatever you still have to say, you'll tell my lawyer. Goodbye, Mr. Grissom." 

He turned and headed to the door. 

Grissom stood up. "He'll have to repeat the blood test within six months." He was being hard, and he knew it, but was trying to touch a nerve, to induce him to change his course of action. "You know this, don't you?" 

Luthor stopped briefly in the doorway, turning slightly, and Grissom saw his back tense, a muscle in his cheek twitch, his throat working as if he were swallowing a big, bitter pill. Then the man squared his shoulders again and left the room. 

Grissom followed him, after a moment. Luthor was already sailing across the hallway. He met Catherine and another man -- the famous lawyer, presumably -- halfway, then snatched his son's hand from Catherine's and strode away dragging him along, followed by his faithful lackey. Catherine looked floored. 

The boy turned his head once before disappearing around the corner. There was despair in his eyes. 

Grissom nodded encouragingly. 

"It's okay," he said once more in a whisper, although he wasn't that sure. 

* * *

He hadn't seen the boy ever again, but he had never forgotten the look in his eyes. On the contrary, he had seen it often with his mind's eye. 

He had seen it clearly, when Ramsey had turned towards him in the courtroom, smiling smugly, while the expensive lawyer -- who, for some unexplained reason, had agreed to defend him -- got him released on bail. 

He had seen it when Ramsey had been found hanged in a motel room at Indian Springs, while surely trying to leave the state. The local sheriff had dismissed the case as suicide. Grissom was pretty certain he would have come to another conclusion. But that wasn't his case. 

Not that he was that displeased the pervert was dead. At least he was no longer in a position to hurt anyone. But he couldn't answer any questions anymore, either, and several murders remained unsolved, several parents were still wondering how their missing children had ended up. Yet, truth be told, although he would have liked to solve the case for truth's sake, and would have loved seeing that arrogant Luthor in jail -- where hopefully he would lose that annoying smirk -- he wasn't that anxious to take the man away from his son. Even if he wasn't that sure the boy would have been happier, or at least would have grown up in a better way without him. 

He had suddenly seen the kid's eyes when Catherine had informed him she was pregnant. While he smiled and congratulated her, he had hoped her baby would be luckier than Ramsey's boy, and wouldn't know, wouldn't see the horrible things that life was so full of. 

He had continued to see the boy's eyes in those of every abused or murdered child he had met in his career. 

Catherine sometimes showed him the photos and features on the tabloids: the Luthor heir at his mother's funeral, the Luthor heir's attempted suicide, the Luthor heir's nights of revelry, the Luthor heir's cars and women and parties, the Luthor heir's arrests and releases, the Luthor heir's graduation, the Luthor heir's brilliant achievements as a fertilizer plant manager at Smallville, Kansas. 

He didn't read the articles and didn't really see the photos. He saw beyond them. Beyond the smiles, the intoxication, the flashes, the fancy gadgets, the shame, the success. He saw those eyes. He would always -- always -- see those eyes. 


End file.
